r 


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EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


CHICAGO   AND   NEW   YORK 
THE  HENNEBERRY  COMPANY 


CONTENTS. 


*  AGE 

Memoir £ 

N.  P.  Willis  on  the  Death  of  Poe 113 

POEMS  AND  ESSAYS: 

The  Poetic  Principle 125 

Author's  Preface  to  the  Poems 153 

The  Raven I5S 

Lenore 161; 

Hymn 16$ 

A  Valentine 163 

The  Coliseum 164! 

X°  Helen 166' 

-  To i68| 

Ulalume , 169 

The  Bells 17* 

The  Enigma i?6j 

Annabel  Lee 177 

To  my  Mother 179' 

The  Haunted  Palace 179 

The  Conqueror  Worm 181 

To  F S  S.  O D 182! 

To  One  in  Paradise 182 

The  Valley  of  Unrest 1831 

The  City  in  the  Sea l8f 

The  Sleeper 186 

Silence 188 

-"'  A  Dream  within  a  Dream 188 

Dreamland 189 

To  Zante ig1 

^^JCulalie 192! 

Eldorado 193 

3 


1548680 


4  CONTENTS. 

Israfel 193 

For  Annie 195 

To igg. 

Bridal  Ballad 199 

To  F 200 

Scenes  from  "Politian" 201 

POEMS   WRITTEN   IN    YOUTH. 

Sonnet — to  Science 225 

Al  Aaraaf 226 

To  the  River 240 

Tamerlane 240 

To  248 

~^A  Dream 249 

Romance 249 

Fairy-Land 250 

The  Lake—  To 252 

—  Song 252 

To  M.  L.  S 253 

.-Spirit  of  the  Dead 254 

To  Helen 255 

Alone ,  f , 1 1 .  i . ,  1 1  • ,  1 1  •  • . 255 


MEMOIR. 


Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  born  in  Boston,  on 
the  1 9th  of  January,  1809.  He  was  named 
Allan  after  a  wealthy  and  intimate  friend  of 
the  family,  and  when  both  his  parents  died  his 
godfather,  who,  although  long  married,  was 
childless,  adopted  the  little  orphan,  then  only 
six  years  old.  Even  at  this  early  age  Poe  was 
noted  for  his  precocity  as  well  as  for  his 
beauty,  and  Mr.  Allan  appears  to  have  been 
extremely  proud  of  his  youthful  protege,  and 
to  have  treated  him  in  many  respects  as  his 
own  son.  The  boy  is  stated  to  hav^e  been 
made  quite  a  show-child  of  by  his  adopted 
father;  a  tenacious  memory  and  a  musical  ear, 
we  are  informed,  enabling  him  to  learn  by 
rote,  and  declaim  to  the  evening  visitors 
assembled  at  Mr.  Allan's  house,  the  finest  pas- 
sages of  English  poetry  with  great  effect. 
"The  justness  of  his  emphasis,  and  his  evident 
appreciation  of  the  poems  he  recited,"  we 
learn,  made  a  striking  impression  upon  his 
audience,  "while  every  heart  was  won  by  the 
ingenuous  simplicity  and  agreeable  manner  of 
the  pretty  little  elocutionist."  Gratifying  as 
these  exibitions  may  have  been  to  his  god- 
father's vanity,  the  probable  consequence  of 
such  a  system  of  recurring  excitements  upon 
the  boy's  morbidly  nervous  organization  could 
scarcely  fail  to  be  disastrous.  Indeed,  in  after 

5 


6  MEMOIR. 

years,  the  poet  bitterly  bewailed  the  pernicious 
effects  of  his  childhood's  misdirected  aims.  *'I 
am,"  he  but  too  truthfully  declared,  "the 
descendant  of  a  race  whose"  imaginative  and 
easily  excitable  temperament  has  at  all  times 
rendered  them  remarkable,  and  in  my  earliest 
infancy  I  gave  evidence  of  having  fully  inher- 
ited the  family  character.  As  I  advanced  in 
years  it  was  more  strongly  developed,  becom- 
ing, for  many  reasons,  a  cause  of  serious  dis- 
quietude to  my  friends,  and  of  positive  injury 
to  myself;  .  .  .  my  voice  was  a  household 
law,  and,  at  an  age  when  few  children  have 
abandoned  their  leading  strings,  I  was  left  to 
the  guidance  of  my  own  will,  and  became,  in 
all  but  name,  the  master  of  my  own  actions." 
In  1816,  the  Allans  having  to  visit  England 
on  matters  connected  with  the  disposal  of  some 
property  there,  brought  their  adopted  son  with 
them,  and  after  taking  him  on  a  tour  through 
England  and  Scotland  with  them,  left  him  at 
the  Manor- House  School  in  Church  Street, 
Stoke-Newington.  The  school  belonged  to  a 
Rev.  Dr.  Bransby,  who  is  so  quaintly  described 
in  "William  Wilson,"  one  of  Poe's  finest  sto- 
ries. At  the  time  of  Poe's  residence  the  school 
grounds  occupied  a  large  area,  but  of  late  years 
they  have  been  greatly  circumscribed  in  extent. 
The  description  of  the  place,  and  the  account 
of  his  life  there,  Poe  is  stated  to  have  declared 
were  autobiographical! y  portrayed  in  this  tale; 
if  so,  a  portion  of  "William  Wilson's,"  oft- 
quoted  reminiscences  must  be  relegated  to  the 
exaggerated  memories  of  childhood.  In  some 


MEMOIR,  7 

respects  the  description  of  the  "large,  rambling 
Elizabethan  house"  corresponds  more  closely 
to  the  fine  old  manorial  residence  facing  the 
school,  but  in  others  the  place  is  described 
with  almost  pre-Raphaelite  minuteness.  The 
picture  of  Stoke-Newington  as  it  was  when 
Poe  resided  there  is  also  unusually  accurate  in 
its  details.  Friendless  and  orphaned  though 
he  was,  it  was  probably  the  happiest  portion  of 
his  life  that  the  future  poet  passed  in  this  con- 
genial spot,  this  "misty-looking  village  of  Eng- 
land, where  were  a  vast  number  of  gigantic 
and  gnarled  trees,  and  where  all  the  houses 
were  excessively  ancient."  "In  truth,"  adds 
Poe,  "it  was  a  dream-like  and  spirit-soothing 
place,  that  venerable  old  town,"  and  it  is  not 
strange  that  the  boy's  plastic  mind  should  have 
received,  and  retained  indelibly  imprinted 
upon  it  the  impression  of,  and  in  after  years 
recall,  in  fancy,  "the  refreshing  chillness  of  its 
deeply  shadowed  avenues,  inhale  the  fragrance 
of  its  thousand  shrubberies,  and  thrill  anew 
with  undefinable  delight,  at  the  deep  hollow 
note  of  the  church-bell,  breaking  each  hour 
with  sudden  and  sullen  roar,  upon  the  still- 
ness of  the  dusky  atmosphere  in  which  the 
fretted  Gothic  steeple  lay  imbedded  and 
asleep." 

Here,  in  this  dreamy  place,  Edgar  Poe  spent 
from  four  to  five  years  of  his  existence,  and, 
notwithstanding  the  monotony  of  school  2ife, 
was  doubtless  fully  justified  in  looking  back 
upon  the  days  passed  in  that  venerable  acad- 
emy with  pleasurable  feelings.  "The  teeming 


8        ,  MEMOIR. 

brain  of  childhood,"  to  quote  his  own  words, 
4 'requires  no  external  world  of  incident  to 
occupy  or  amuse  it.  .  .  .  The  morning's  awak- 
ening, the  nightly  summons  to  bed,  the  con- 
nings,  the  recitations,  the  periodical  half-holi- 
days and  perambulations,  the  play-ground, 
with  its  broils,  its  pastimes,  its  intrigues ; — 
these,  by  a  mental  sorcery  long  forgotten, 
were  made  to  involve  a  wilderness  of  sensation, 
a  world  of  rich  incident,  a  universe  of  varied 
emotion,  of  excitement,  the  most  passionate 
and  spirit-stirring.  'Oh,  le  bon  temps,  que  ce 
siecle  de  ferf  " 

The  house  was,  indeed  still  is,  as  Poe 
described  it,  "old  and  irregular."  "The 
grounds,"  he  continues,  "were  extensive,  and 
a  high  and  solid  brick  wall,  topped  with  a  bed 
of  mortar  and  broken  glass,  encompassed  the 
whole.  This  prison-like  rampart  formed  the 
limit  of  our  domain ;  beyond  it  we  saw  but 
thrice  a  week — once  every  Saturday  afternoon, 
when,  attended  by  two  ushers,  we  were  per- 
mitted to  take  brief  walks  in  a  body  through 
some  of  the  neighboring  fields,  and  twice  dur- 
ing Sunday,  when  we  were  paraded  in  the  same 
formal  manner  to  the  morning  and  evening 
services  in  the  one  church  of  the  village.  .  .  . 
At  an  angle  of  the  ponderous  wall  frowned  a 
more  ponderous  gate.  It  was  riveted  and 
studded  with  iron  bolts,  and  surmounted  with 
jagged  iron  spikes,  '.tfliat  impressions  of  deep 
awe  did  it  inspire!  .  .  .  The  extensive  en- 
closure was  irregular  in  form,  having  many 
capricious  recesses.  Of  these,  three  or  four  of 


MEMOIR.  9 

the  largest  constituted  the  play-ground.  It 
was  level,  and  covered  with  fine,  hard  gravel. 
I  well  remember  it  had  no  trees,  nor  benches, 
nor  anything  similar,  within  it.  Ot  course  it 
was  in  the  rear  of  the  house.  In  front  lay  a 
small  parterre,  planted  with  box  and  other 
shrubs,  but  through  this  sacred  division  we 
passed  only  upon  rare  occasions  indeed — such 
as  a  first  advent  to  school,  or  final  departure 
thence,  or  perhaps  when  a  parent  or  friend 
having  called  for  us  we  joyfully  took  our  way 
home  for  the  Christmas  or  Midsummer  holi- 
days. ' ' 

"The  ardor,  the  enthusiasm,  and  the  imper- 
iousness. "  which  is  declared  to  have  rendered 
the  soi-disant  ''William  Wilson"  a  marked 
character  amongst  his  school-mates,  so  that  by 
slow  but  natural  gradations  he  obtained  an 
ascendency  over  all.  not  greatly  older  than  him- 
self, may  be  safely  assumed  to  represent  Poe's 
own  character,  even  at  this  early  epoch  of  his 
life,  as  it  is  invariably  found  to  represent  it  from 
first  to  last.  Undoubtedly  it  was  in  this  "ven- 
erable academy"  that  our  poet  acquired  the 
groundwork  of  that  curious  superstructure  of 
classic  lore  which  in  after  years  Was  one  of  the 
chief  ornaments  of  his  weird  and  wonderful 
works.  To  the  lustrum  of  his  life  spent  in 
England,  Edgar  Poe  was  probably  far  more 
scholastically  indebted  than  the  world  can  or 
will  ever  know, 

In  1821,  the  lad  was  recalled  home,  and 
coon  afterward  was  placed  by  his  adopted  par- 
ents at  an  academy  in  Richmond^  Virginia, 

2  Poe's  Poems. 


10  MEMOIR, 

Mr.  Allan  would  seem  to  have  been  very 
proud  of  his  handsome  and  precocious  godson, 
and  always  to  have  been  willing  to  afford  him 
any  amount  of  education  procurable ;  but  of 
parental  love,  of  that  deep  sympathy  for  which 
the  poor  orphan  yearned,  he  seems  to  have 
been  utterly  devoid.  Not  but  what  the  impe- 
rious little  fellow  was  indulged  in  what  money 
could  purchase,  but  the  petting  and  spoiling 
which  he  still  appears  to  have  received  was  not 
of  that  kind  to  touch  his  tender  heart. 
Throughout  life  a  morbid  sensitiveness  to 
affection  was  one  of  his  most  distinguishing 
traits,  and  this  it  was  that  frequently  drove 
him  to  seek  in  the  society  of  dumb  creatures 
that  love  which  was  denied  him,  or  which  he 
sometimes  believed  denied  him,  by  human 
beings.  There  is  a  paragraph  in  his  terrible 
tale  ot  "The  Black  Cat,"  which  those  who  were 
intimately  acquainted  with  Poe  will  at  once 
recognize  the  autobiographical  fidelity  of. 
''From  my  infancy,'*  he  remarks,  "I  was  noted 
for  the  docility  and  humanity  of  my  disposi- 
tion. My  tenderness  of  heart  was  even  so 
conspicuous  as  to  make  me  the  jest  of  my 
companions.  I  was  especially  fond  of  ani- 
mals, and  was  indulged  by  my  parents  with  a 
great  variety  of  pets.  With  these  I  spent 
most  of  my  time  and  never  was  so  happy  as 
when  feeding  and  caressing  them.  This  pecu- 
liarity of  character  grew  with  my  growth,  and 
in  my  manhood  I  derived  from  it  one  of  my 
principal  sources  of  pleasure.  To  those  who 
have  cherished  an  affection  for  a  faithful  and 


MEMOIR.  II 

sagacious  dog,  I  need  hardly  be  at  the  trouble 
of  explaining  the  nature  or  the  intensity  of 
the  gratification  thus  derivable.  There  is 
something  in  the  unsel-fish  self-sacrificing 
love  of  a  brute  which  goes  directly  to  the  heart 
of  him  who  has  had  frequent  occasion  to  test 
the  paltry  friendship  and  gossamer  fidelity  of 
mere  man. ' ' 

In  her  before  quoted  little  book  Mrs.  Whit- 
man relates  a  well-authenticated  and  charac- 
teristic anecdote  of  Poe  when  he  was  studying 
at  the  Richmond  academy,  and  whilst  it  very 
strikingly  illustrates  the  almost  Quixotic  con- 
stancy of  his  attachments — his  gratitude  for 
kindness — it  also  but  too  clearly  demonstrates 
how  little  sympathy  and  affection  the  young 
orphan  received  from  his  adopted  parents. 
44  He  one  day  accompanied  a  schoolmate  to  his 
home,"  relates  Mrs.  Whitman,  *' where  he  saw 

for  the  first  time  Mrs.  H S ;*  the  mother 

of  his  young  friend.  This  lady,  on  entering 
the  room,  took  his  hand  and  spoke  some  gentle 
and  gracious  words  of  welcome  which  so  pen- 
etrated the  sensitive  heart  of  the  orphan  boy 
as  to  deprive  him  of  the  power  of  speech,  and 
for  a  time  almost  of  consciousness  itself.  He 
returned  home  in  a  dream,  with  but  one 
thought,  one  hope  in  life — to  hear  again  the 
sweet  and  gracious  words  that  had  made  the 
desolate  world  so  beautiful  to  him,  and  filled 
his  lonely  heart  with  the  oppression  of  a  new 
joy.  This  lady  afterward  became  the  confi- 
dent of  all  his  boyish  sorrows,  and  hers  was 

*Mrs.  Helen  Stannard  was  the  name  of  this  lady. 


12  MEMOIR. 

the  one  redeeming  influence  that  saved  and 
guided  him  in  the  earlier  days  of  his  turbulent 
and  passionate  youth."  But,  alas  for  the  poor 
lad,  this  lady  was  herself  overwhelmed  with 
fearful  and  peculiar  sorrows,  and  at  the  very 
moment  when  her  guiding  voice  was  most 
needed,  she  died.  But  when  she  was  entombed 
in  the  neighboring  cemetery,  her  poor  boyish 
admirer  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  her 
lying  there  lonely  and  forsaken  in  her  vaulted 
home,  and  for  months  after  her  decease, 
like  his  contemporary  Petofi,  the  great  Hun- 
garian poet,  at  the  grave  of  his  girl-love 
Etelka,  Poe  would  go  nightly  to  visit  the  tomb 
of  his  revered  friend,  and  "when  the  nights 
were  very  dreary  and  cold,  when  the  autumnal 
rains  fell,  and  the  winds  wailed  mournfully 
over  the  graves,  he  lingered  longest  and  came 
away  most  regretfully. " 

For  years,  if  not -for  life,  the  memory  of  this 
unfortunate  lady  tinged  all  his  fancies  and 
filled  his  mind  with  saddening  things.  In  a 
letter  written  within  a  twelve-month  of  his 
death  to  the  truest  friend,  in  all  probability,  of 
his  "lonesome latter  years,"  Poe  broke  though 
his  usual  reticence  as  to  his  early  life,  and  con- 
fessed that  his  exquisite  stanzas,  "Helen,  thy 
beauty  is  to  me,"  were  inspired  by  the  mem- 
ory of  this  lady,  by  "the  one  idolatrous  and 
purely  ideal  love"  of  his  tempest-tossed  boy- 
hood. In  the  earliest  versions  of  his  boy- 
hood's poems  the  name  Helen  frequently 
recurs,  and  it  was  undoubtedly  to  her  that  he 
inscribed  "The  Paean,"  a  juvenile  poem, 


MEMOIR.  13 

which  he  subsequently  greatly  improved  both 
in  rhythm  and  expression,  and  republished 
under  the  musical  name  of  "Lenore."  The 
description  which  Poe  afterward  gave  to  a 
friend  of  the  fantasies  that  haunted  his  brain 
during"  his  desolate  vigils  in  the  cemetery,  the 
namtless  fears  and  indescribable  phantasms, 

"Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings 
Invisible  Woe!" 

she  compares  to  those  which  overwhelmed  De 
Quincey  at  the  burial  of  his  sweet  sister  and 
playmate.  We  linger  somewhat  over  this 
little-known  epoch  of  Poe's  story,  because  we 
are  perfectly  convinced  that  Mrs.  Whitman  has 
indeed  found  "a  key  to  much  that  seems 
strange  and  abnormal  in  the  poet's  after  life, 
in  those  solitary  churchyard  vigils  with  all 
their  associated  memories."  There  can  in- 
deed be  no  doubt  that  those  who  would  seek 
the  clue  to  the  psychological  phenomena  of  his 
strange  existence,  that  intellect — as  Poe  him- 
self said — which  would  try  to  reduce  his  "phan- 
tasm to  the  commonplace,"  must  know  and 
even  study  this  phase  of  his  being.  The  mind 
which  could  so  steadfastly  trace,  step  by  step, 
the  terrible  stages  of  sentence  after  death,  as 
Edgar  Poe's  does  in  his  weird  "Colloquy  of 
Monos  and  Una,"  must,  indeed,  have  been 
one  that  frequently  had  sought  to  wrest  from 
the  charnel-house  its  earthy  secrets. 

Returning  to  the  more  commonplace  records 
fcf  his  history,  the  future  poet  is  described  to. 
us  at  this  period  of  his  life  as  remarkable 


U  MEMOIR. 

j 

for  his  general  cleverness,  his  feats  of  activity, 
his  wayward  temper,  his  extreme  personal 
beauty,  and  his  power  of  extemporaneous  tale- . 
telling,  and,  even  at  this  early  stage,  as  a 
great  classical  scholar,  and  as  well  versed  in 
mathematics,  botany,  and  other  branches  of 
the  natural  sciences.  It  is  but  just  that  we 
should  refer  to  Griswold's  account  of  his  epoch 
in  the  life  of  Edgar  Poe,  as  that  biographist's 
mendacity  is  not  known  to  all. 

"In  1822,"  says  Griswold,  c'Poe  returned  to 
the  United  States,  and  after  passing  a  few 
months  at  an  academy  in  Richmond,  he  en- 
tered the  university  at  Charlottesville,  where 
he  led  a  very  dissipated  life;  the  manners 
which  then  prevailed  there  were  extremely 
dissolute,  and  he  was  known  as  the  wildest 
and  most  reckless  student  ot  his  class ;  .  .  . 
he  would  have  graduated  with  the  highest 
honors  had  not  his  gambling,  intemperance, 
and  other  vices  induced  his  expulsion  from  the 
university."  The  mere  f«act  that,  according 
to  Griswold's  dates,  Poe  would  only  have  been 
at  this  time  in  the  eleventh  or  twelfth  year  of 
his  age,  is  sufficient  to  induce  doubt  as  to  the 
correctness  of  his  accusations,  but,  fortunately 
for  the  fair  fame  of  the  accused,  indisputable 
evidence  as  to  the  entire  untruth  of  Griswold's 
story  has  been  procured.  On  May  22,  1860, 
Dr.  Stephen  Maupin,  president  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Virginia,  in  answer  to  various  inquiries 
made  of  him  relative  to  Edgar  Poe's  career  at 
Charlottesville,  procured  a  statement  from 
Mr.  William  Wertenbaker,  secretary  of  the 


MEMOIR.  15 

Faculty,  which  he  further  indorsed  with  the 
remark  that  "Mr.  Wertenbaker's  statement  is 
worthy  of  entire  confidence."  "I  may  add," 
he  continues,  "that  there  is  nothing  on  the 
Faculty  records  to  the  prejudice  of  Mr.  Poe. 
He  appears  to  have  been  a  successful  student, 
having  obtained  distinctions  in  Latin  and 
French  at  the  closing  examinations  of  1826. 
He  never  graduated  here,  no  provision  for 
conferring  degrees  of  any  kind  having  been 
made  at  the  time  he  was  a  student  here."  Dr. 
Maupin's  letter  is  followed  by  the  said  state- 
ment, and  a  most  interesting  as  well  as  con- 
clusive document  it  is.  Says  Mr.  Werten- 
baker : 

"Edgar  A.  Poe  was  a  student  of  the  University  of 
Virginia  during  the  second  session,  which  commenced 
February  i,  1826,  and  terminated  December  i$th  of  the 
same  year.  He  signed  the  matriculation  book  on  the 
i4th  of  February,  and  remained  in  good  standing  as  a 
student  till  the  session  closed.  He  was  born  on  the  igth 
of  February,  1809,  being  a  little  under  seventeen  when 
he  entered  the  institution.  He  belonged  to  the  schools 
of  ancient  and  modern  languages,  and  as  I  was  myself 
a  member  of  the  latter,  I  can  testify  that  he  was  toler- 
ably regular  in  attendance,  and  a  very  successful  stu- 
dent, having  obtained  distinction  in  it  at  the  final  exam- 
ination,  the  highest  honor  a  student  could  then  obtain, 
the  present  regulation  in  regard  to  degrees  not  having 
been  at  the  time  adopted.  On  one  occasion  Professor 
Blatterman  requested  his  Italian  class  to  render  into 
English  verse  a  portion  of  the  lesson  in  Tasso,  assigned 
for  the  next  lecture.  Mr.  Poe  was  the  only  one  who 
complied  with  the  request.  He  was  highly  compli- 
mented by  the  Professor  for  his  performance. 

"Although  I  had  a  passing  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Poe 
from  an  early  period  of  the  session,  it  was  not  until  near 
its  close  that  I  had  any  social  intercourse  wit«h  him, 


16  MEMOIR. 

After  spending  an  evening  together  at  a  private  house, 
he  invited  me  to  his  room.  It  was  a  cold  night  in  De- 
cember, and  his  fire  having  gone  nearly  out,  by  the  aid 
of  some  candle  ends  and  the  wreck  of  a  table,  he  soon 
rekindled  it,  and  by  its  comfortable  blaze  I  spent  a  very 
pleasant  hour  with  him.  On  this  occasion  he  spoke 
with  regret  of  the  amount  of  money  he  had  wasted,  and 
the  debts  he  had  contracted.  In  a  biographical  sketch 
of  Mr.  Poe,  I  have  seen  it  stated  that  he  was  at  one 
time  expelled  from  the  university ;  but  that  he  after- 
ward returned  and  graduated  with  the  highest  honors. 
This  is  entirely  a  mistake.  He  spent  but  one  session 
at  the  university,  and  at  no  time  did  he  fall  under  the 
censure  of  the  Faculty.  He  was  not  at  that  time  ad- 
dieted  to  drinking,  but  had  an  ungovernable  passion  for 
card-playing.  Mr.  Poe  was  several  years  older  than 
his  biographer  represents  him.  His  age,  1  have  no 
doubt,  was  correctly  entered  on  the  matriculation 
book." 

So  much  for  the  story  started,  or  at  all 
events  promulgated  by  Griswold,  of  Edgar 
Poe's  expulsion  from  the  university.  This 
writer  admits  that  Poe  was  noted  at  this  time 
for  feats  of  hardihood,  strength,  and  activity, 
and  recounts— but  with  his  u«sual  exaggera- 
tion— an  aquatic  performance  of  the  lad's.  On 
a  hot  day  of  June,  according  to  Poe's  own 
statement,  he  swam  from  Ludlum's  wharf  to 
Warwick,  ^  distance  of  six  miles,  against  a 
strong  tide ;  and  when  the  truth  of  the  asser- 
tion was  publicly  questioned,  he  obtained  a 
certification  of  the  fact  from  several  compan- 
ions, including  his  dear  classmate,  Robert 
Stannard.  This  document,  moreover,  declares 
that  "Mr.  Poe  did  not  seem  at  all  fatigued, 
and  walked  back  to  Richmond  immediately 
after  the  feat,  which  was  undertaken  for  a 


MEMOIR.  i? 

wager. "  Our  poet  had,  indeed,  no  little  con- 
fidence in  his  swimming  powers,  and  asserted 
that,  on  a  favorable  day,  he  believed  he  could 
swim  the  English  Channel  from  Dover  to 
Calais. 

In  1827,  aroused  by  the  heroic  efforts  the 
Greeks  were  making  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of 
their  Turkish  oppressors,  and,  doubtless,  emu- 
lous of  Byron,  whose  example  had  excited  the 
chivalric  boys  of  both  continents,  Edgar  Poe 
and  an  acquaintance,  Ebenezer  Burling,  deter- 
mined to  start  for  Greece  and  offer  their  aid  to 
the  insurgents.  Either  Mr.  Burling's  heart 
failed,  or  parental  authority  was  too  strong  for 
him,  for  he  stayed  at  home,  whilst  the  embryo 
poet,  doubtless  in  headstrong  opposition  to  the 
wishes  of  his  adopted  parents,  started  alone 
for  Europe.  Poe  was  absent  for  more  than  a 
year,  but  the  adventures  of  his  journey  have 
never  been  told ;  he  seems  to  have  been  very 
reticent  upon  the  subject,  and  to  have  left  un- 
contradicted  the  various  stories  invented,  and 
even  published  during  his  lifetime,  to  account 
for  the  interregnum  in  his  history.  That  he 
reached  England  is  probable,  but  whether  he 
ever  beheld,  save  in  his  "mind's-eye,"  the 
remains  of 

"The  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome." 

is  still  uncertain ;  there  are  a  few  slight  allus- 
ions scattered  amid  his  writings  to  the  scenery 
of  both  Greece  and  Italy,  but  it  is  impossible 
to  found  anything  reliable  upon  such  data. 


18  MEMOIR. 

The  story  as  to  his  having  arrived  at  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  got  involved  in  difficulties  that  nec- 
essitated ministerial  aid  to  extricate  hhn,  must 
be  given  up,  as  must  also  that  founded  upon 
the  suggestion  made  by  the  anonymous  author 
of  a  scurrilous  paper  which  appeared  in  the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger,  that  Poe,  when 
in  London,  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Leigh 
Hunt  and  Theodore  Hook,  and  lived  like 
"that  class  of  men  .  .  .  dragging  out  a  preca- 
rious existence  in  garrets,  doing  drudgery 
work,  writing  for  the  great  presses  and  for  the 
reviews,  whose  world-wide  celebrity  has  been 
the  fruit  of  such  men's  labor." 

In  1829  Edgar  Poe  returned  home  if  Mr. 
Allan's  residence  may  so  be  termed.  He 
reached  Richmond,  Virginia,  we  have  been 
informed,  early  in  March,  but  too  late  to  take 
a  last  farewell  of  his  adopted  mother,  she 
having  died  on  the  ayth  of  February,  and  her 
funeral  having  taken  place  the  very  day  before 
Poe's  return.  Mrs.  Allan  had  probably  exer- 
cised a  conciliatory  influence  in  the  household, 
where,  we  hear,  it  was  frequently  needed,  and 
the  poor  lad,  who  in  after  life  invariably  spoke 
well  of  this  lady,  doubtless  soon  felt  the  effects 
of  her  loss.  Mr.  Allan  does  not  appear  to  have 
manifested  any  great  pleasure  at  the  prodigal's 
return,  but  when  Poe  expressed  his  willing- 
ness to  devote  himself  to  the  military  profes- 
sion, he  exercised  his  influence  and  obtained  a 
nomination  for  him  to  a  scholarship  in  the 
military  academy  at  West  Point.  As,  accord- 
ing to  the  rules  of  that  institution,  appoint- 


MEMOIR.  19 

ments  are  not  given  to  candidates  after  they 
have  attained  their  twenty-first  birthday,  the 
young1  author,  for  such  he  now  was,  was  only 
just  in  time  to  secure  his  nomination.  Mean- 
while, Poe  had  published  a  little  volume  of 
poems,  his  first  known  essay  in  literature, 
under  the  title  of  "Al  Aaraaf,  Temerlane,  and 
Other  Poems."  Lowell  and  others  of  the 
poet's  reviewers  speak  of  an  earlier  edition  of 
this  book  as  published  in  1827,  and  from  it  the 
delicate  little  lyric,  "To  Helen,"  is  professedly 
extracted.  This  1827  volume  is  also  stated  to 
have  received  very  flattering  notice  from  the 
veteran  author,  John  Neal,  but  it  has  disap- 
peared without  leaving  any  trace,  and  the 
edition  ot  1829,  which  was  printed  for  private 
circulation  only,  is  the  earliest  discoverable 
vestige  of  Poe's  literary  powers. 

Reverting  to  the  military  academy,  the 
records  show  that  Poe  was  admitted  into  that 
institution  as  a  cadet  on  the  ist  of  July,  1830. 
He  is  declared  to  have  entered  upon  his  new 
mode  of  living  with  customary  energy,  but 
very  speedily  discovered  how  totally  unsuited 
to  him  now  was  the  strict  discipline  and  mo- 
notonous training  of  such  a  place  as  West 
Point.  The  wayward  and  erratic  course  of 
existence  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed, 
together  with  his  having  been  for  so  long  a 
time  sole  master  of  his  own  actions,  rendered 
it  impossible  for  him  to  submit  to  the  galling 
restraints  of  this  institution.  A  fellow-cadet 
with  him  at  the  academy  informs  us  of  "his 
utter  inefficiency  and  state  of  abstractedness 


20  MEMOIR. 

at  that  place.  He  could  not,  or  would  not, 
he  remarks,  "follow  its  mathematical  require 
ments.  His  mind  was  off  from  the  matter-of 
fact  routine  of  the  drill,  which  in  such  a  case 
as  his,  seemed  practical  joking  on  some  ethe- 
real visionary  expedition.  He  was  marked," 
adds  our  informant,  "for  an  early  death." 
This  institution  was  utterly  unsuitable  for 
one  of  Poe's  temperament  and  experience ;  it 
was  a  repetition  of  the  old  story  of  Pegasus  at 
the  plow,  and  the  climax  was,  as  could  easily 
have  been  foreseen,  that  on  the  yth  of  Jan- 
uary, 1831,  he  was  tried  by  a  general  court- 
martial  "for  various  neglects  of  duty  and  diso- 
bedience of  orders,"  to  which  he  could  but 
plead  guilty,  and,  he  was,  on  the  subsequent 
6th  of  March,  "dismissed  the  service  of  the 
United  States." 

In  1831,  whilst  still  cadet,  and  all  unawed 
by  the  sentence  impending,  he  published  an 
enlarged  collection  of  his  boyish  rhymes  under 
the  title  of  "Poems  by  Edgar  A.  Poe."  This 
volume,  garnished  with  a  quotation  from 
Rochefoucauld,  "Tout  le  monde  a  raison"  and 
which,  like  its  predecessors,  was  for  private 
circulation,  was  dedicated  to  "the  United 
States  Corps  of  Cadets,"  a  dedication  which 
appears  to  have  drawn  upon  its  unfortunate 
author  the  ridicule  of  his  fellow-students.  A 
fellow-cadet,  a  General  Cullum,  alluding  to  the 
contents  of  this  little  volume,  says:  "These 
verses  were  the  source  of  great  merriment 
with  us  boys,  who  considered  the  author 
cracked  and  the  verses  ridiculous  doggerel. " 


MEMOIR.  21 

Happily  for  literature,  the  opinion  of '  'us  boys' ' 
did  not  carry  much  weight,  and  Poe  continued 
to  write  "verses"  quite  regardless  of  West 
Point  and  its  judgments.  This  little  book  is 
most  interesting  not  only  on  account  of  its 
cleverly  written  prefatory  letter  of  seventeen 

pages,  addressed  to  a  certain  mythical  "B , 

but  also  from  the  fact  that  it  contains  a  large 
quantity  of  verse  suppressed  in  later  editions 
of  Poe's  works.  The  prose  is  followed  by  a 
poetical  introduction  of  sixty-six  lines,  a  por- 
tion of  which,  under  the  title  of  "Romance," 
is  included  in  the  general  collection  of 
"Poems  written  in  Youth."  Many  of  the 
omitted  portions  of  this  volume  have  a  strange 
biographical  interest  for  those  conversant  with 
the  true  story  of  Edgar  Poe's  life;  to  them 
they  hint  of  something  more  than  mere 
rhymes.  The  omissions  from  it  are  as  happy  as 
the  additions  to  those  boyish  poems.  No  re- 
gard for  the  relics  of  his  youth  withheld  Edgar 
Poe  in  after  life  from  pruning  away  the  ex- 
crescences of  his  juvenile  verse;  the  critic's 
unswerving  hand  clipped  or  molded  all  into 
artistic  unity. 

Upon  leaving  West  Point,  Poe  returned  to 
Mr.  Allan's  residence  at  Richmond,  and 
appears  to  have  remained  there  some  time  on 
sufferance.  Soon  after  his  return  home  he  be- 
came attached  to  Miss  Royster,  and  was  ulti- 
mately, it  is  believed,  engaged  to  her.  Mr. 
Allan,  why  it  is  not  known,  was  violently 
opposed  to  the  match,  and  without  his  pecuni- 
ary aid,  matrimony  was  out  of  the  question,  as 


22  MEMOIR. 

Poe  was  entirely  dependent  upon  him.  A  vio- 
lent quarrel  took  place  between  the  old  man 
and  his  adopted  son,  and  Poe,  unable  to  sub- 
mit calmly  to  the  course  of  events,  again  left 
home,  this  time  with  the  intention  of  proceed- 
ing to  Poland,  to  expend  his  energies  in  aiding 
the  Poles  in  their  struggles  against  Russia. 
How  far  he  got  is  not  known,  but  it  is  sup- 
posed that  he  did  not  leave  America,  having 
been  stopped  by  the  intelligence  that,  on  the 
6th  of  September,  Warsaw  had  fallen,  carry- 
ing with  it  the  last  hopes  of  the  Polish  insur- 
gents. In  the  meanv:hile,  as  if  to  widen  the 
estrangement  at  home,  Mr.  Allan  had  taken 
unto  himself  a  young  wife — "the  beautiful 
Miss  Paterson"  whilst  Miss  Royster,  forgetful 
of  her  faith,  was  married  to  a  wealthy  man,  a 
Mr.  Shelton.  Once  more  aimless,  and  prob- 
ably resourceless,  the  chivalric  young  poet 
again  sought  his  native  province.  Whether 
he  returned  to  the  home  that  was  home  no 
more  is  uncertain,  but,  from  what  is  known  of 
his  proud  spirit,  it  seems  unlikely;  if  he  did, 
however,  his  stay  was  of  short  duration,  and 
his  godfather's  second  wife  having  given  birth 
to  a  son  was  the  death-blow  to  Poe's  prospects 
of  succeeding  to  the  property. 

Bankrupt  in  nearly  everything,  the  unfortu- 
nate poet  now  turned  to  literature  as  a  means 
of  obtaining  subsistence,  but  he  found  the 
waters  of  Helicon  were  anything  but  Pactolian. 
Where  he  wandered,  and  what  he  did,  for 
nearly  two  years,  still  remains,  an  unraveled 
mystery,  but  it  is  alleged  that  some  of  his  fin- 


MEMOIR.  23 

est  stories  were  written  during  this  epoch,  and, 
although  accepted  and  published  by  magazine 
editors,  were  scarcely  ever  paid  for.  In  1833 
he  is  heard  of  in  Baltimore  competing  for 
prizes  offered  by  the  proprietor  of  the  Satur- 
day Visitor  for  the  best  prose  story  and  the 
best  poem.  Here,  then,  was  an  opportunity 
of  deferring,  for  a  while  at  least,  the  starva- 
tion which  was  not  far  off.  For  the  competi- 
tion, Poe  selected  and  sent  in  six  of  his  stories, 
and  his  poem  of  "The  Coliseum.'*  Some 
v/ell-known  literary  men  consented  to  adjudi- 
cate upon  the  mass  of  papers  received,  and 
after  a  careful  consideration  of  the  various 
contributions,  decided  unanimously  that  Poe, 
who  was  unknown  to  them,  was  entitled  to 
both  premiums. 

Not  contented  with  this  award,  the  adjudi- 
cators even  went  out  of  their  way  to  draw  up 
and  publish  the  following  flattering  critique  on 
the  merits  of  the  writings  submitted  by  Poe: — 

"Amongst  the  prose  articles  were  many  of  various 
and  distinguished  merit,  but  the  singular  force  and 
beauty  of  those  sent  by  the  author  of  'the  Tales  of  the 
Folio  Club,'  leave  us  no  room  for  hesitation  in  that  de- 
partment. We  have  accordingly  awarded  the  premium 
to  a  tale  entitled  the  'MS.  found  in  a  bottle.'  It  would 
hardly  be  doing  justice  to  the  writer  of  this  collection  to 
say  that  the  tale  we  have  chosen  is  the  best  of  the  six 
offered  by  him.  We  cannot  refrain  from  saying  that  the 
author  owes  it  to  his  own  reputation,  as  well  as  to  the 
gratification  of  the  community  to  publish  the  entire  vol- 
ume ('Tales  of  the  Folio  Club').  These  tales  are  emi- 
nently distinguished  by  a  wild,  vigorous,  and  poetical 


24  MEMOIR. 

imagination,  a  rich  style,  a  fertile  invention,  and  varied 

and  curious  learning. 

"JOHN  P.  KENNEDY, 
"J.  H.  B.  LATROBE,  and 
"JAMES  H.  MILLER." 

Griswold  tells  the  story  of  the  award  thus : — 

"Such  matters  are  usually  disposed  of  in  a  very  off- 
hand way.  Committees  to  award  literary  prizes  drink 
to  the  payer's  health  in  good  wines  over  unexamined 
MSS.,  which  they  submit  to  the  discretion  of  publishers, 
with  permission  to  use  their  names  in  such  a  way  as  to 
promote  the  publisher's  advantage.  So,  perhaps,  it 
would  have  been  in  this  case,  but  that  one  of  the  com- 
mittee taking  up  a  little  book  remarkably  beautiful  and 
distinct  in  calligraphy,  was  tempted  to  read  several 
pages;  and  becoming  interested,  he  summoned  the 
attention  of  the  company  to  the  half-dozen  compositions 
it  contained.  It  wa  unanimously  decided  that  the 
prizes  should  be  p  d  to  'the  first  of  the  geniuses  who 
had  written  legibly.'  Not  another  MS.  was  unfolded. 
Immediately  the  'con  dential  envelope'  was  opened, 
and  the  successful  competitor  was  found  to  bear  the 
scarcely  known  name  of  Poe." 

The  above  report,  which  was  published  on 
the  1 2th  of  October,  1833,  is  of  itself  a  com- 
plete disproof  of  Griswold's  dishonoring  accu- 
sation against  the  committee  of  having  awarded 
the  prizes  to  Poe  because  of  his  beautiful  hand- 
writing, without  looking  at  a  single  MS.  of 
any  other  competitor.  When  the  story,  it  may 
be  added,  was  brought  to  the  notice  of  Mr. 
Latrobe  and  the  honorable  John  P.  Kennedy', 
the  two  surviving  adjudicators,  they  at  once 
denied  its  truth. 

Mr.  Kennedy,  the  well-known  author,  was 
so  interested  in  the  successful  but  unknown 


MEMOIR.  25 

competitor,  that  he  invited  him  to  his  house, 
and  Poe's  response,  written  in  his  usual 
beautiful  and  distinct  caligrnphy,  proves  the 
depth  of  misery  to  which  he  had  sunk.  How 
his  heart  bled  to  pen  these  lines  few  can  prob- 
ably imagine: — 

"Your  invitation  to  dinner  has  wounded  me 
to  the  quick.  I  cannot  come  for  reasons  of 
the  most  humiliating  nature — my  personal 
appearance.  You  may  imagine  my  mortifica- 
tion in  making  this  disclosure  to  you,  but  it  is 
necessary." 

Urged  by  the  noblest  feelings,  Mr.  Kennedy 
at  once  sought  out  the  unfortunate  youth,  and 
found  him,  as  he  declares,  almost  starving. 
Poe's  wretched  condition  inspired  the  unselfish 
author  with  pity,  as  his  genius  did  with  admi- 
ration, and  from  henceforth  he  became  his 
firm  friend.  It  is  interesting  to  learn  that  to 
the  last  Poe  retained  his  benefactor's  friend- 
ship and  respect,  as  Mr.  Kennedy  acknowl- 
edged when  informed  of  the  poet's  decease; 
and  no  better  disproof  of  the  calumnies  heaped 
by  Griswold  on  the  dead  man's  head  could  be 
given,  than  by  repeating  the  testimonies  of  all 
those  with  whom  Poe  lived  and  labored.  So 
far  from  contenting  himself  with  mere  cour- 
tesies, Mr.  Kennedy  assisted  his  new  protegg 
to  re-establish  himself  in  the  outward  garb  of 
respectability,  and  in  many  respects  treated 
him  more  like  a  dear  relative  than  a  chance 
acquaintance.  In  his  diary  he  records,  "I 
gave  him  clothing,  free  access  to  my  table,  and 
the  use  of  a  horse  for  exercise  whenever  he 


26  MEMOIR. 

chose}  in  fact,  brought  him  up  from  the  very 
verge  of  despair. ' '  Aided  by  such  a  friend, 
Poe's  affairs  could  not  but  mend. 

In  the  spring  of  1834,  Mr.  Allan  died,  and  if 
his  god-son  still  retained  any  expectations  of 
inheriting  any  portion  of  his  wealth  he  was  at 
last  undeceived,  as,  in  the  language  of  Gris- 
wold,  "not  a  mill  was  bequeathed  to  Poe." 
In  August  of  this  same  year,  a  Mr.  White,  an 
energetic  and  accomplished  man,  in  opposition 
to  the  advice  of  his  friends,  commenced  the 
publication  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messen- 
ger, in  Richmond,  Virginia.  This  magazine 
was  a  very  daring  speculation  at  such  a  time 
and  place,  and  but  for  a  fortunate  accident 
might  have  placed  its  promoter  completely 
hors  de  combat.  Amongst  the  well-known  writ- 
ers whose  aid  he  solicited  was  Mr.  Kennedy, 
and  he,  being  fully  engaged,  advised  Poe  to 
send  something.  Our  poet  did  so,  and  Mr. 
White,  greatly  pleased  with  his  contributions, 
spoke  of  them  in  very  flattering  terms,  in 
March,  1835,  publishing  "Berenice. "  Hence- 
forth Poe  became  a  regular  monthly  contribu- 
tor to  the  Messenger.  Mr.  Kennedy  had  now 
had  a  year  and  a  half's  experience  of  Poe, 
without  finding  anything  in  his  conduct  to 
alter  the  good  opinion  he  had  formed  of  him, 
and  the  following  letter  is  quoted  by  Griswold 
as  having  been  written  at  this  period  by  Mr. 
Kennedy  to  Mr.  White.  As  it  is  apparently 
authentic,  we  quote  it: — 


"DEAR  SIR- 


"BALTIMORE,  April  13,  1835. 
.—Poe  did  right  in  referring  to  me.     He  i 


MEMOIR.  27 

very  clever  with  his  pen— classical  and  scholarlike.  He 
wants  experience  and  direction,  but  I  have  no  doubt  he 
can  be  made  very  useful  to  you.  And,  poor  fellow !  he 
is  very  poor.  I  told  him  to  write  something  for  every 
number  of  your  magazine,  and  that  you  might  find  it  to 

S)ur  advantage  to  give  him  some  permanent  employ, 
e  has  a  volume  of  very  bizarre  tales  in  the  hands  of 

,  in  Philadelphia,   who    for    a  year  past  has  been 

promising  to  publish  them.  This  young  fellow  is  highly 
imaginative,  and  a  little  given  to  the  terrific.  He  is  at 
work  upon  a  tragedy,  but  I  have  turned  him- to  drudg- 
ing upon  whatever  may  make  money,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  you  and  he  will  find  your  account  in  each  other." 

Mr.  White  undoubtedly  found  his  "account" 
in  his  new  contributor,  and  every  month 
called  the  attention  of  his  readers  to  the 
beauties  of  the  current  tale  by  the  young 
author. 

In  the  June  number  of  the  magazine  ap- 
peared Poe's  tale  of  "Hans  Pfaall,"  and  three 
weeks  later  there  appeared  in  the  New  York 
Sun,  Mr.  Locke's  famous  "Moon  Hoax"  story. 
Griswold  alludes  to  the  former  being  "in  some 
respects  very  similar  to  Mr.  Locke's  celebrated 
account,"  in  a  way  to  make  his  readers  be- 
lieve our  poet  the  copier  instead  of  the  copied. 
Poe's  reputation  was  now  increasing  so  rapidly 
that  Mr.  White  became  desirous  of  retaining 
his  services  exclusively  for  his  magazine,  and 
having  sounded  his  contributor,  and  found  him 
only  too  willing,  engaged  him  to  assist  in  the 
editorial  duties  of  the  Messenger  at  a  salary  of 
about  one  hundred  guineas  (520  dollars)  per 
annum.  In  consequence  of  this  appointment 
Poe  at  once  removed  from  Baltimore  to  Rich- 
mond, Virginia,  where  the  magazine  was  pub- 


28  MEMOIR. 

lished.  Griswold,  in  order  to  suit  dates  to  one 
of  his  allegations  against  Poe,  states  that  he 
was  appointed  editor  of  the  Messenger  in  May, 
whereas  he  only  became  assistant  editor  in 
September,  and  did  not  assume  the  full  control 
of  the  publication  until  December,  1835.  The 
unfavorable  notice  of  Mr.  Laughton  Osborne's 
"Confessions  of  a  Poet,"  which  appeared  in 
the  April  number,  and  which  Griswold,  in 
order  to  support  his  charge  of  inconsistency, 
ascribed  to  Poe,  was  obviously  never  written 
by  the  poet  at  all.  Its  style  is  a  sufficient  dis- 
proof of  the  allegation.  The  following  letter, 
which  Poe  wrote  to  his  friend  Kennedy  to  tell 
him  of  his  appointment  on  the  Messenger, 
affords  a  sad  picture  of  the  terrible  melancholia 
under  which  the  poet  so  frequently  suffered — 
an  affliction  not  merely  the  result  of  privations 
and  grief,  but  undoubtedly,  to  some  extent, 
inherited : — 

"RICHMOND,  September  n,  1835. 
"DEAR  SIR — I  received  a  letter  from  Dr.  Miller,  in 
which  he  tells  me  you  are  in  town.  I  hasten,  therefore, 
to  write  you,  and  express  by  letter  what  I  have  always 
found  it  impossible  to  express  orally — my  deep  sense  of 
gratitude  for  your  frequent  and  ineffectual  assistance 
and  kindness.  Through  your  influence  Mr.  White  has 
been  induced  to  employ  me  in  assisting  him  with  the 
editorial  duties  of  his  magazine,  at  a  salary  of  five  hun- 
dred and  twenty  dollars  per  annum.  The  situation  is 
agreeable  to  me  for  many  reasons,  but,  alas !  it  appears 
to  me  that  nothing  can  give  me  pleasure  or  the  slightest 
gratification.  Excuse  me,  my  dear  sir,  if  in  this  letter 
you  find  much  incoherency.  My  feelings  at  this  moment 
are  pitiable  indeed.  I  am  suffering  under  a  depression 
of  spirits  such  as  I  have  never  felt  before.  I  have 
struggled  in  vain  against  the  influence  of  this  melan- 


MEMOIK;  '  29 

choly;  you  will  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  am  still 
miserable  in  spite  of  the  great  improvement  in  my  cir- 
cumstances. I  say  you  will  believe  me,  and  for  this 
simple  reason,  that  a  man  who  is  writing  for  effect  does 
not  write  thus.  My  heart  is  open  before  you;  if  it  be 
worth  reading,  read  it.  I  am  wretched  and  know  not 
why.  Console  me — for  you  can.  But  let  it  be  quickly, 
or  it  will  be  too  late.  Write  me  immediately;  convince 
me  that  it  is  worth  one's  while — that  it  is  at  all  necessary 
to  live,  and  you  will  prove  yourself  indeed  my  friend. 
Persuade  me  to  do  what  is  right.  I  do  mean  this.  I 
do  not  mean  that  you  should  consider  what  I  now  write 
you  a  jest.  Oh,  pity  me !  for  I  feel  that  my  words  are 
incoherent;  but  I  will  recover  myself.  You  will  not  fail 
to  see  that  I  am  suffering  under  a  depression  of  spirits 
which  will  ruin  me  should  it  be  long  continued.  Write 
me  then  and  quickly;  urge  me  to  do  what  is  right. 
Your  words  will  have  more  weight  with  me  than  the 
words  of  others,  for  you  were  my  friend  when  no  one 
else  was.  Fail  not,  as  you  value  your  peace  of  mind 
hereafter.  E.  A.  POE." 

To  this  wail  of  despair  Mr.  Kennedy  sent  the 
following  kindly  if  commonplace  reply: 

"I  am  sorry  to  see  you  in  such  a  plight  as  your 
letter  shows  you  in.  It  is  strange  that  just  at  this  time, 
when  everybody  is  praising  you,  and  when  fortune  is 
beginning  to  smile  upon  your  hitherto  wretched  circum- 
stances, you  should  be  invaded  by  these  blue  devils.  It 
belongs,  however,  to  your  age  and  temper  to  be  thus 
buffeted — but  be  assured,  it  only  wants  a  little  resolu- 
tion to  master  the  adversary  forever.  You  will  doubt- 
less do  well  henceforth  in  literature,  and  add  to  your 
comforts,  as  well  as  to  your  reputation,  which  it  gives 
me  pleasure  to  assure  you  is  everywhere  rising  in  pop- 
ular esteem." 

Notwithstanding  his  "blue  devils,"  as  Mr. 
Kennedy  styled  it,  the  new  editor  worked  won- 
ders with  the  Messenger.  "His  talents  made 
that  periodical  quite  brilliant  while  he  was 


30  MEMOIR. 

connected  with  it,"  records  this  friend,  and 
indeed  in  little  more  than  a  twelvemonth  Poe 
raised  its  circulation  from  seven  hundred  to 
nearly  five  thousand.  This  success  was  par- 
tially due  to  the  originality  and  fascination  of 
Poe's  stories,  and  partially  owing  to  the  fear- 
lessness of  his  trenchant  critiques.  He  could 
not  be  made,  either  by  flattery  or  abuse,  a  re- 
specter of  persons.  In  the  December  number  of 
the  Messenger  he  began  that  system  of  literary 
scarification—  that  crucial  dissection  of  book- 
making  mediocrities,  which,  whilst  it  created 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
States  a  terror  of  his  powerful  pen,  at  the  same 
time  raised  up  against  him  a  host  of  implaca- 
ble, though  unknown,  enemies,  who  were  only 
too  glad,  from  that  time,  to  seize  upon  and 
repeat  any  story,  however  improbable,  to  his 
discredit.  Far  better  would  it  have  been  for 
his  future  welfare  if,  instead  of  affording  con- 
temporary nonentities  a  chance  of  literary  im- 
mortality by  impaling  them  upon  his  pen's 
sharp  point,  he  had  devoted  his  whole  time  to 
the  production  of  his  wonderful  stories,  or  still 
more  wonderful  poems.  Why  could  he  not 
have  left  the  task  of  crushing  or  puffing  the 
works  of  his  Liliputian  contemporaries  to  the 
ordinary  "disappointed  authors?" 

During  the  whole  of  1836  Poe  devoted  his 
entire  attention  to  the  Messenger,  producing 
tales,  poems,  essays,  and  reviews  in  profusion, 
indeed,  apparently  at  Mr.  White's  suggestion, 
frittering  away  his  genius  over  these  last. 
Early  in  the  year  a  gleam  of  hope  seemed  to 


MEMOIR.  81 

break  in  upon  his  checkered  career.  In  Rich- 
mond, once  more  among  his  kindred,  he  met 
and  married  his  cousin,  Virginia,  the  daughter 
of  his  father's  sister,  Maria.  Miss  Clemm  was 
but  a  girl  in  years,  and  already  manifested 
symptoms  of  the  family  complaint,  consump- 
tion, but,  undeterred  by  this  or  by  his  slender 
income,  the  poor  poet  was  married  to  his  kins- 
woman, and,  it  must  be  confessed,  in  happier 
circumstances,  a  better  helpmate  could  scarcely 
have  been  found  for  him,  while  the  marriage 
had  the  further  advantage  of  bringing  him 
under  the  motherly  care  of  his  aunt,  Mrs. 
Clemm.  Until  January,  1837,  Poe  continued 
the  direction  of  the  Messenger,  when  he  left  it 
for  the  more  lucrative  employment  of  assisting 
Professors  Anthon,  Hawks  and  Henry  in  the 
management  of  the  New  York  Quarterly  Re- 
view, and,  probably,  to  aid  the  first  in  his  clas- 
sical labors — a  work  for  which  his  scholarly 
attainment  rendered  him  invaluable.  Mr. 
White  parted  with  Poe  very  reluctantly,  and 
in  the  number  of  the  Messenger  which  con- 
tained the  announcement  of  Poe's  resignation, 
issued  a  note  to  the  subscribers,  wherein,  after 
alluding  to  the  abjlity  with  Which  the  retiring 
editor  had  conducted  the  magazine,  he  re- 
marked: "Mr.  Poe,  however,  will  continue  to 
furnish  its  columns  from  time  to  time  with  the 
effusions  of  his  vigorous  and  popular  pen." 
We  dwell  upon  this  incident,  and  upon  the 
fact,  more  than  once  acknowledged  by  Mr. 
White,  that  Poe  resigned  for  other  employ- 


32  MEMOIR. 

ment,    because   Griswold    expressly    declares 
that  he  was  dismissed  for  drunkenness. 

From  Richmod,  Poe  removed  to  New  York, 
where  he  and  his  household  resided  in  Carmine 
Street.  In  his  writing  for  the  New  York 
Quarterly  Review,  says  Mr.  Powell,  *4he  came 
down  pretty  freely  with  his  critical  ax,  and 
made  many  enemies."  These  reviews  display 
his  immense  learning,  and  the  extraordinary 
range  of  subjects  with  which  he  was  convers- 
ant, but  it  is  impossible  to  peruse  them  with- 
out grieving  at  the  loss  literature  sustained  by 
his  dissipating  his  powers  over  such  ephemera. 
The  late  Mr.  William  Gowans,  the  wealthy 
and  respected,  but  eccentric  bibliopolist,  of 
New  York,  has  left  us  a  most  interesting  pict- 
ure of  the  poet's  menage  at  this  period  of  his 
story.  Alluding  to  the  untruthfulness  of  the 
prevalent  idea  of  Poe's  character,  the  shrewd 
old  man  remarks,  "I,  therefore,  will  also  show 
you  my  opinion  of  this  gifted  but  unfortunate 
genius.  It  may  be  estimated  as  worth  little, 
but  it  has  this  merit — it  comes  from  an  eye 
and  ear  witness;  and  this,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, is  the  very  highest  of  legal  evidence. 
For  eight  months  or  more  one  house  contained 
us,  one  table  fed!  During  that  time  I  saw 
much  of  him,  and  had  an  opportunity  of  con- 
versing with  him  often,  and  I  must  say  that  I 
never  saw  him  the  least  affected  with  liquor, 
nor  even  descend  to  any  known  vice,  while  he 
was  one  of  the  most  courteous  gentlemanly, 
and  intelligent  companions  I  have  met  with 
during  my  journeyings  and  haltings  through 


MEMOIR.  35 

divers  divisions  of  the  globe ;  besides,  he  had 
an  extra  inducement  to  be  a  good  man  as  well 
as  a  good  husband,  for  he  had  a  wife  of  match- 
less  beauty  and  loveliness;  her  eyes  could 
match  that  of  any  houri,  and  her  face  defy  the 
genius  of  a  Canova  to  imitate ;  a  temper  and 
disposition  of  surpassing  sweetness;  besides, 
she  seemed  as  much  devoted  to  him  and  his 
every  interest  as  a  young  mother  is  to  her 
first  born.  .  .  .  Poe  had  a  remarkably  pleas- 
ing and  prepossessing  countenance,  what  the 
ladies  would  call  decidedly  handsome." 

Through  the  courtesy  of  a  correspondent  we 
are  permitted  to  extract  the  following  addi- 
tional testimony  from  a  private  letter  written 
by  Mr.  Thomas  C.  Latto,  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Gowans,  on  the  8th  July,  1870.  "In  con- 
versation with  William  Gowans,"  says  Mr. 
Latto,  "he  told  me  that  he  was  a  boarder  in 
the  house  of  Mrs.  Clemm.  .  .  .  Mr.  Poe  and 
his  young  wife,  whom  Mr.  G.  describes  as 
fragile  in  constitution  but  of  remarkable 
beauty,  boarded  at  that  time  with  Mrs.  Clemm. 
They  were  in  poor  circumstances.  Mr. 
Gowans  lived  with  them  several  months,  and 
he  was  often  consulted  by  Mrs.  Clemm  as  to 
the  ways  and  means,  as  the  boarding-house 
business  did  not  pay.  He  only  left  when  the 
household  was  broken  up.  Of  course,  Mr. 
Gowans  had  the  best  opportunity  of  seeing 
what  kind  of  life  the  poet  led.  His  testimony 
is,  that  he  (Poe)  was  uniformly  quiet,  reticent, 
gentlemanly  in  demeanor,  and  during  the 
whole  period  he  lived  there,  not  the  slightest 

8  Foe's  Poems 


34  MEMOIR. 

trace  of  intoxication  or  dissipation  was  dis- 
cernible in  the  illustrious  inmate,  who  was  at 
that  time  engaged  in  the  composition  of 
Arthur  Gordon  Pym.  Poe  kept  good  hours, 
and  all  his  little  wants  were  seen  to  both  by 
Mrs.  Clemm  and  her  daughter,  who  watched 
him  as  sedulously  as  if  he  had  been  a  child. 
Mr.  Gowans  is  himself  a  man  of  intelligence, 
and  being  a  Scotchman,  is  by  no  means  averse 
to  4a  twa-handed  crack, '  but  he  felt  himself 
kept  at  a  distance  somewhat  by  Poe's  aristo- 
cratic reserve." 

4 'Mr.  Gowans,"  remarks  Mr.  Latto,  4tis 
known  to  be  one  of  the  most  truthful  and  un- 
compromising of  men." 

During  January  and  February  of  this  year 
(1837)  Poe  contributed  the  first  portions  of 
"The  Narrative  of  Arthur  Gordon  Pym"  to 
the  Messenger,  and  encouraged  by  the  interest 
it  excited,  he  determined  to  complete  it.  It 
\vas  not  published  in  book  form,  however,  until 
July  of  the  following  year,  and  although  it  did 
not  excite  much  attention  in  America,  it  was 
very  successful  in  England.  Griswold,  dis- 
playing his  usual  animus,  remarks,  that  copies 
being  sent  to  England,  and  it  44 being  mistaken 
at  first  for  a  narrative  of  real  experiences,  it 
was  advertised  to  be  reprinted,  but  a  discovery 
of  its  character,  I  believe,  prevented  such  a 
result.  An  attempt  is  made  in  it,"  he  contin- 
ues, 44by  simplicity  of  style,  minuteness  of 
nautical  descriptions,  and  circumstantiality  of 
narration,  to  give  it  that  air  of  truth  which 
constitutes  the  principal  attraction  of  Sir 


MEMOIR.  35 

Edward  Seaward's  narrative,  and  'Robinson 
Crusoe, '  but  it  has  none  of  the  pleasing  inter- 
est of  these  tales ;  it  is  as  full  of  wonders  as 
'Munchausen,'  has  as  many  atrocities  as  the 
'Book  of  Pirates,'  and  as  liberal  array  of  pain- 
ing and  revolting  horrors  as  ever  was  invented 
by  Anne  Radcliffe  or  George  Walker."  His 
further  deprecatory  remarks  are  not  worth 
reproducing.  The  fact  is  that  in  a  short  in- 
terval the  story  was  several  times  reprinted  in 
England,  and  it  did  excite  considerable  notice; 
the  "air  of  truth,"  which,  it  is  suggested, 
was  only  in  the  attempt,  having  attracted 
much  interest. 

The  independence  which  Poe  had  hoped  to 
earn  by  his  pen  was  not  obtainable  in  those 
days  at  New  York,  and  having  prospect  of 
constant  employment  in  Philadelphia,  he  re- 
moved to  that  city  late  in  1838,  and  entered 
into  an  arrangement  to  write  for  the  Gentle- 
man's Magazine,  a  publication  of  some  years' 
standing.  His  talents  soon  produced  the  usual 
brilliant  effects  upon  this  publication,  and  in 
May,  1839,  he  was  appointed  to  the  editorial 
management,  "devoting  to  it,"  says  Griswold, 
"for  ten  dollars  a  week,  two  hours  every  day, 
which  left  him  abundant  time  for  more  im- 
portant labors."  What  leisure  his  editorial 
duties  may  have  left  was  devoted  to  writing 
for  other  publications,  and  as  several  of  his 
tales  and  other  compositions  first  made  their 
appearance  at  this  time,  it  is  to  be  presumed 
that  he  managed  to  obtain  a  fair  livelihood. 
Still  he  was  not  only  compelled  to  labor  con- 


36  MEMOIR. 

tinuously  and  severely,  but  was  frequently 
forced  by  the  res  angusta  domi  to  forsake  his 
legitimate  province  in  literature,  and  turn  his 
pen  to  any  project  that  offered  a  certain  remu- 
neration. There  is  a  scandalous  story  told  of 
him  by  Griswold  in  support  of  his  wholesale 
denunciation  of  Poe  as  a  plagiarist,  and  which, 
although  the  accuser  does  not  state  to  what 
period  of  the  poet's  life  it  refers,  really  relates 
to  this  epoch.  Griswold,  on  the  authority,  he 
asserts,  of  a  Philadelphian  newspaper,  declares 
that  Poe  reprinted  a  popular  work  on  conchol- 
ogy,  written  by  the  well-known  naturalist, 
Captain  Thomas  Brown,  as  by  himself,  "and 
actually  took  out  a  copyright  for  the  American 
edition  of  Captain  Brown's  work,  and  omitting 
all  mention  of  the  English  original,  pretended 
in  the  preface  to  have  been  under  great  obli- 
gations to  several  scientific  gentlemen  of  this 
city."  For  ten  years  after  Poe's  death  this 
vile  calumny  circulated  unanswered  wherever 
the  poet's  biography  was  told,  and  although 
many  of  the  American  literati  must  have 
known  the  untruth  of  the  story,  no  one  vent- 
ured to  explain  the  facts  until  ultimately  it 
came  under  the  notice  of  the  .  person  of  all 
others  best  able  to  disprove  it,  which  he  did 
through  the  columns  of  the  Home  Journal. 
Professor  Wyatt,  a  Scotchman  of  considerable 
erudition  and  scientific  attainments,  formed 
Poe's  acquaintance,  and  obtained  his  assistance 
in  the  compilation  of  several  works  on  Natural 
History;  among  others  was  a  "Manual  of  Con- 
chology,"  and  to  this,  Poe,  whose  scientific 


MEMOIR.  37 

knowledge  was  most  comprenensive  and 
exact,  contributed  so  largely  that  the  publish- 
ers were  fully  justified  in  using  his  popular 
name  on  the  title-page,  although  he  only 
received  a  share  of  the  profits.  Captain 
Brown's  "Text-Book  of  Concholcgy, "  necessa- 
rily bear.s  some  resemblance  to  the  combined 
work  of  Poe  and  Wyatt,  from  the  simple  fact 
that  both  treatises  are  founded  by  the  system 
laid  down  by  Lamarck,  but  the  absurd  charge 
that  one  is  therefore  plagiarized  from  the  other 
can  only  have  arisen  from  gross  ignorance  or 
willful  falsehood.  About  this  time  Poe  also 
published,  as  a  sequence  of  such  studies,  a 
translation  and  di-gest  of  Lemonnier's  "Nat- 
ural History,"  and  other  relative  writings. 

In  the  autumn  of  1839,  Poe  made  a  collec- 
tion of  his  best  stories,  and  published  them  in 
two  volumes  as  tales  of  the  "Arabesque  and 
Grotesque."  This  collection  contained  some 
of  his  most  imaginative  writing,  and  still  fur- 
ther increased  its  author's  reputation.  It  in- 
cluded the  story  of  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of 
Usher" — a  story  which  contains  the  charac- 
teristic poem  of  "The  Haunted  Palace." 
Griswold  avers  that  Poe  was  indebted  to  Long- 
fellow's "Beleaguered  City"  for  his  idea  of 
this  exquisite  poem,  but  that  Poe  asserted 
Longfellow  to  have  been  indebted  to  him  for 
the  idea.  We  do  not  believe  in  plagiarisms, 
as  a  rule,  and  whether  the  author  of  "The 
Haunted  Palace"  did,  or  did  not,  accuse  his 
brother  bard  of  robbery  we  know  not,  but 
must  simply  point  out  that  Poe 's  poem  had 


38  MEMOIR. 

been  published  long  prior  to  Longfellow's, 
and  not  "a  few  weeks,"  as  Griswold  says,  and 
in  two  different  publications.  The  resem- 
blance was  probably  purely  accidental,  but  at 
all  events,  Tennyson  had  worked  out  the  same 
idea  many  years  previous  to  either  in  "The 
Deserted  House,"  published  in  i83o."Ligeia," 
Poe's  favorite  tale,  also  appeared  in  this  col- 
lection. On  a  copy  of  this  weird  story,  in  our 
possession,  is  an  indorsement  by  the  poet  to 
the  effect  that  "Ligeia  was  also  suggested  by 
a  dream;"  the  "also"  referring  to  a  poem  sent 
to  Mrs.  Whitman,  and  which,  he  remarks  to 
her,  "contained  all  the  events  of  a  dream  which 
occurred  soon  after  I  knew  you. ' ' 

Towards  the  close  of  1840,  Mr.  George  R. 
Graham,  owner  of  The  Casket,  acquired  pos- 
session of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  and 
merging  the  two  publications  into  one,  began 
the  new  series  as  Graham's  Magazine,  a  title 
which,  it  is  believed,  it  still. retains.  The  new 
proprietor  was  only  too  willing  to  retain  the 
services  of  the  brilliant  editor,  and  he  found 
his  reward  in  so  doing — Edgar  Poe,  assisted  by 
Mr.  Graham's  liberality  to  his  contributors,  in 
little  more  than  two  years  raising  the  number 
of  subscribers  to  the  magazine  from  five  to 
fifty-two  thousand.  His  daring  critiques,  his 
analytic  essays,  and  his  weird  stories,  follow- 
ing one  another  in  rapid  succession,  startled 
the  public  into  a  knowledge  of  his  power.  He 
created  new  enemies,  however,  by  the  daunt- 
less intrepidity  with  which  he  assailed  the 
fragile  reputations  of  the  small  book-makers. 


MEMOIR.  89 

especially  by  tthe  publication  of  his  papers  on 
* 'Autography."  He  also  excited  much  crit- 
icism in  literary  circles  by  the  publication  of 
his  papers  on  "Cryptology,"  in  which  he  pro- 
mulgated the  theory  that  human  ingenuity 
could  not  construct  .any  cryptograph  which 
human  ingenuity  could  not  decipher.  Tested 
by  several  correspondents  with  difficult  samples 
of  their  skill,  the  poet  actually  took  the  trouble 
to  examine  and  solve  them  in  triumphant 
proof  of  the  truth  of  his  theory. 

In  April,  1841,  he  published  in  Graham's 
Magazine,  tale  of  "The  Murders  in  the  Rue 
Morgue,"  the  first  of  a  series  illustrating 
another  analytic  phase  of  his  many-sided  mind. 
This  story  was  the  first  to  introduce  his  name 
to  the  French  public,  being  translated,  and 
published  as  an  original  story  by  Le  Commerce, 
under  the  title  of  "L'Orang-Otang;"  shortly 
afterwards  it  was  translated  again,  and 
appeared  in  the  pages  of  La  Quotidienne, 
whereupon  a  cry  was  raised,  a  lawsuit  insti- 
tuted, and  ultimately  the  truth  discovered,  that 
Edgar  Poe,  an  American,  was  the  author. 
Madam  Mannier  availed  herself  of  the  interest 
created  by  this  inquiry  to  translate  several  of 
his  stories  for  the  French  papers;  whilst  the 
Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  Revue  Francaise  and 
other  leading  publications  spoke  in  highly  flat- 
tering terms  of  the  young  foreigner's  produc- 
tions. This  gave  an  impetus  to  his  reputation 
in  France,  which  culminated  in  the  faithfully 
vraisemblant  translations  of  Baudelaire,  who, 
indeed,  spent  many  years  of  his  life  in  an 


40  MEMOIR. 

endeavor  to  thoroughly  identify  hi  >  mind  \nth 
that  of  his  idol  Edgar  Poe,  and  who  has  repro- 
duced many  of  his  stories  with  but  little  loss 
of  vigor  or  originality:  indeed,  to  the  efforts 
and  genius  of*Baudelaire  is  chiefly  due  the  fact 
that  Poe's  tales  have  become  standard  classic 
works  in  France.  Edgar  Poe  is  veritably,  it 
may  be  pointed  out,  the  only  American  writer 
really  well  known  and  popular  in  France.  In 
Spain,  too,  Poe's  tales  early  acquired  fame,  and 
have  now  become  thoroughly  nationalized ; 
and  with  the  exception  of  works  on  Spanish 
subjects,  such  as  those  by  Washington  Irving, 
Prescott  and  Motley,  are  the  only  American 
works  known  in  that  country.  In  Germany, 
the  poems  and  tales  have  been  frequently 
translated,  but  it  is  only  quite  recently  that 
they  attaimed  any  widely-diffused  celebrity 
amongst  the  Germans. 

In  1842,  appeared  "The  Descent  into  the 
Maelstrom,"  a  tale  that  in  many  respects  may 
be  deemed  one  of  his  most  marvelous  and 
idiosyncratic.  It  is  one  of  those  tales  which, 
like  "The  Gold- Bug"  and  others,  demonstrates 
the  untenabili'ty  of  the  theory  first  promulgated 
by  Griswold,  and  since  so  frequently  echoed 
by  his  copyists,  that  Poe's  ingenuity  in  unrid- 
dling a  mystery  was  only  ingenious  in  appear- 
ance, as  he  himself  had  woven  the  webs  he  so 
dexterously  unweaves.  The  tales  cited,  how- 
ever, prove  the  falseness  of  this  portion  of 
Griswold's  systematic  depreciation  of  Poe's 
genius.  They  are  the  secrets  of  nature  which 
be  unveils,  and  not  the  riddles  of  art:  he  did 


MEMOIR.  41 

not  invent  the  natural  truth  that  a  cylindrical 
body,  swimming  in  a  vortex,  offered  more 
resistance  to  its  suction,  and  was  drawn  in  with 
greater  difficulty  than  bodies  of  any  other  form 
of  equal  bulk,  any  more  than  he  invented  the 
mathematical  ratio  in  which  certain  letters  of 
the  English  alphabet  recur  in  all  documents  of 
any  length.  He  did  not  invent  "The  Mystery 
of  Marie  Roget, "  but  he  tore  away  the  mys- 
teriousness  and  laid  bare  the  truth  of  that 
strange  story  of  real  life.  He  did  not  invent, 
but  he  was  the  first  to  describe,  if  not  to  dis- 
cover, those  peculiar  idiosyncrasies  of  the 
human  mind  so  wonderfully  but  so  clearly 
displayed  in  "The  Murders  in  the  Rue 
Morgue,"  "The  Purloined  Letter,"  "The 
Imp  of  the  Perverse,"  and  other  remarkable 
proofs  of  his  mastery  over  the  mental  strings 
and  pulleys  of  our  being. 

It  was  during  his  brilliant  editorship  of  Gra- 
ham's Magazine  that  Poe  discovered  and  first 
introduced  to  the  American  public  the  genius 
of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  and  it  was 
whilst  he  held  sw  y  over  it  that  she  contributed 
to  its-  pages  man^  of  her  shorter  poems; 
indeed,  it  was  greatly  due  to  Poe  that  her 
fame  in  America  was  coeval  with  if  it  did  not 
somewhat  precede  that  wo  by  her  in  her  native 
land.  In  May,  1841,  he  contributed  to  the 
Philadelphia  Saturday  Evening  Post — a  paper 
belonging  to  Mr.  Graham,  and  for  which  Poe 
wrote-  >that  prospective  notice  of  the  newly- 
commenced  story  of  "Barnaby  Rudge,"  which 
drew  from  Dickens  a  letter  of  admiring 

4  Poe'e  Poems 


42  MEMOIR. 

acknowledgment.  In  this  notice  the  poet  with 
mathematical  precision  explained  and  foretold 
the  exact  plot  of  the  as  yet-unwritten  story. 
Professor  Wyatt,  already  alluded  to  in  connec- 
tion with  the  conchology  story,  was  not  only  a 
contributor  of  articles  on  natural  history  to 
Graham's,  but  at  this  time,  and  for  several 
years,  was  intimately  acquainted  with  Poe,  and 
we  have  his  unimpeachable  authority  for  the 
invariable  honor  and  purity  of  the  poet's  life 
In  November,  1842,  "The  Mystery  of  Marie 
Roget"  appeared,  and  about  the  same  time  Poe 
resigned  his  post  of  joint  editor  and  reviewer 
of  Graham's  Magazine;  why  or  wherefore  was 
never  stated,  but  that  it  was  not  through  drunk- 
enness, as  alleged  by  Griswold — the  successor 
to  Poe's  editorial  duties — Mr.  Graham's  own 
famous  letter  of  1850  conclusively  proves. 
Poe's  idea  would  appear  to  have  been  to  start 
a  magazine  of  his  own,  but  his  resignation  may 
perhaps  be  justly  ascribed  to  that  constitutional 
restlessness  which  from  time  to  time  over- 
powered him,  and  drove  him  from  place  to  place 
in  a  vain  search  after  the  Eldorado  of  his 
hopes.  The  truth  as  to  his  severance  from 
Graham's,  like  so  many  of  the  details  that 
enshroud  and  confuse  his  life's  story,  was 
probably  purposely  mystified  by  Poe,  who  had 
even  a  greater  love  than  had  Byron  of  mysti- 
fying the  impertinent  busy-bodies  who  wearied 
him  for  biographical  information.  It  was 
shortly  previous  to  this  epoch  in  his  life  that 
he  had  the  misfortune  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Rufus  Griswold,  a  man  who,  although 


MEMOIR.  43 

several  years  Poe's  junior  in  age,  had,  by  many 
years'  "knocking  about  the  world,"  gained  an 
experience  of  its  shifts  and  subterfuges  and 
made  him  far  more  than  a  match  for  the 
unworldly  nature  of  our  poet.  According  to 
the  author  of  the  "Memoir,"  his  acquaintance 
with  Poe  began  in  the  spring  of  1841,  by  the 
poet  calling  at  his  hotel  and  leaving  two  letters 
of  introduction.  "The  next  morning,"  he 
says,  "I  visited  him,  and  we  had  a  long  con- 
versation about  literature  and  literary  men, 
pertinent  to  the  subject  of  a  book,  'The  Poets 
and  Poetry  of  America,'  which  I  was  then 
preparing  for  the  press,"  and  he  follows  up 
this  introductory  interview  with  the  quotation 
of  several  letters  purporting  to  have  been 
written  by  Poe,  not  one  of  which  we  shall  refer 
to  or  make  use  of,  as  there  is  pretty  positive 
proof  that  some,  if  not  the  whole  of  them,  are 
fabrications!  The  enmity  of  Griswold  for 
Poe— "the  long,  intense,  and  implacable 
enmity,"  alluded  to  by  John  Neal  and  Mr. 
Graham — is  so  palpable  to  readers  of  the 
"Memoir,"  that  it  needed  not  the  outside  evi- 
dence which  has  been  so  abundantly  furnished 
us  to  prove  it,  and  the  wonder  is,  not  so  much 
that  the  biographer's  audacious  falsifications 
should  have  obtained  credit  abroad,  as  that  no 
American  should  have  produced  as  complete  a 
refutation  of  them  as  could  and  should  have 
been  given  years  ago.  Apart  from  deadly 
enmity,  aroused  by  a  subject  of  a  domestic 
nature,  the  compiler  could  not  forgive  Poe  for 
exposing  his  literary  shortcomings.  The  only 


44  MEMOIR. 

passage  in  which  the  soi-disant  biographer 
appears  to  relent  towards  the  dead  poet  is  that 
in  which  he  alludes  to  his  own  visit  to  Poe's 
residence  in  Philadelphia."  "It  was  while  he 
resided  in  Philadelphia,"  Griswold  remarks, 
"that  I  became  acquainted  with  him.  His 
manner  was  very  quiet  and  gentlemanly;  he 
was  usually  dressed  with  simplicity  and  ele- 
gance, and  when  once  he  sent  for  me  to  visk 
him,  during  a  period  of  illness  caused  by  pro- 
tracted and  anxious  watching  at  the  side  of  his 
sick  wife,  I  was  impressed  by  the  singular  neat- 
ness and  the  air  of  refinement  in  his  home. 
It  was  in  a  smr.ll  house  in  one  of  the  pleasant 
and  silent  neighborhoods  far  from  the  town, 
and,  though  slightly  and  cheaply  furnished, 
everything  in  it  was  so  tastefully  and  fitly  dis- 
posed that  it  seemed  altogether  suitable  for  a 
man  of  genius. "  On  seceding  from  Graham's, 
Poe  seems  to  have  endeavored  to  start  a  mag- 
azine of  his  own,  to  be  entitled  The  Stylus,  and 
Mr.  Thomas  C.  Clark,  of  Philadelphia,  was  to 
have  been  the  publisher.  The  poet  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  enabled  to  obtain  a  suffi- 
cient number  of  subscribers  to  start  the  pro- 
jected publication  on  a  sound  basis,  and  there- 
fore the  scheme  fell  through.  Mr.  Clark,  who 
is  still  residing  in  Philadelphia,  speaks  in  high 
terms  of  Poe's  probity  and  honor,  as  indeed 
does  every  one,  save  Griswold,  who  had  deal- 
ings with  him.  It  is  much  to  be  regretted 
that  circumstances  have  prevented  Mr.  Clark 
giving  to  the  world  his  reminiscences  and  col- 
lected facts  relating  to  Edgar  Poe, 


MEMOIR.  45 

In  the  spring  of  1843  the  one  hundred  dollar 
prize,  offered  by  The  Dollar  Magazine,  was 
obtained  by  Poe  for  his  tale  of  "The  Gold- 
Bug,"  a  tale  illustrative  of  and  originating 
with  his  theory  of  ciphers.  As  usual,  Gris- 
wold,  in  mentioning  it,  cannot  refrain  from 
displaying  the  cloven  hoof,  and,  knowing  it  to 
be  the  most  popular  of  Poe's  stories  in  Amer- 
ica, refers  to  it  "as  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
illustrations  of  his  ingenuity  of  construction  and 
apparent  subtlety  of  reasoning.  "  During  this 
year  Poe  wrote  for  Lowell's  Pioneer,  and  other 
publications.  In  1844  he  removed  to  New  York, 
whither  his  daily  increasing  fame  had  already 
preceded  him,  and  where  he  entered  into  a 
more  congenial  literary  atmosphere  than  that 
in  which  he  had  recently  resided.  In  the  cities 
in  which  he  had  hitherto  exercised  his  talents 
he  was  continually  treading  upon  the  mental 
corns  of  provincial  cliques,  but  in  New  York, 
as  he  now  entered  it,  he  found  a  neare 
approach  to  metropolitanism,  and  therefore  a 
fairer  field  for  the  recognition  of  his  powers. 
"For  the  first  time,"  remarks  Griswold,  com- 
pletely ignoring  the  talent  of  all  other  American 
cities,  "for  the  first  time  he  was  received  into 
circles  capable  of  both  the  appreciation  and 
the  production  of  literature. ' '  It  has  generally 
been  assumed  that  the  first  publication  he 
wrote  for  in  New  York  was  the  Daily  Mirror, 
but  the  author  of  a  sketch  of  Willis  and  his 
contemporaries  contributed  to  the  Northern 
Monthly  in  1868,  referring  to  Poe  as  "one  who 
has  been  more  shamefully  maligned  and  slan- 


46  MEMOIR. 

dered  than  any  other  writer  that  can  be 
named,"  states,  "I  say  this  from  personal 
knowledge  of  Mr.  Poe,  who  was  associated  with 
myself  in  the  editorial  conduct  of  my  own 
paper  before  his  introduction  into  the  office  of 
Messrs.  Willis  and  Morris;"  adding,  "for  Mr. 
Willis's  manly  vindication  of  Poe  from  his 
biographer's  degrading  accusations,"  he  says, 
*'Mr.  Willis's  testimony  is  freely  confirmed  by 
other  publishers.  On  this  subject  I  have  some 
singular  revelations  which  throw  a  strong  light 
on  the  causes  that  darkened  the  life,  and  made 
most  unhappy  the  death,  of  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  of  all  our  literary  men — as  an  Eng- 
lish re  viewer  once  said  'the  most  brilliant  gen- 
ius of  his  country.'  " 

Toward  the  autumn  of  the  year  Poe  sought 
and  found  employment  as  sub-editor  and 
critic  on  the  Mirror,  a  daily  paper  belonging 
to  N.  P.  Willis  and  General  George  Morris. 

In  a  letter  written  by  Willis  from  Idlewild, 
in  October,  1859,  to  his  brother  poet  and  for- 
mer copartner  Morris,  he  thus  alludes  to  Poe's 
engagement  with  him: — "Poe  came  to  us 
quite  incidentally,  neither  of  us  having  been 
personally  acquainted  with  him  till  that  time; 
and  his  position  towards  us,  and  connection 
with  us,  of  course  unaffected  by  claims  of  pre- 
vious friendship,  were  a  fair  average  of  his 
general  intercourse  and  impressions.  As  he 
was  a  man  who  never  smiled  and  never  said  a 
propitiatory  or  deprecating  word,  we  were  not 
likely  to  have  been  seized  with  any  sudden 
Dartialitv  or  wavward  caprice  in  his  favor.  .  .  . 


MEMOIR.  4? 

It  was  rather  a  step  downward,  after  being  the 
chief  editor  of  several  monthlies,  as  Poe  had 
been,  to  come  into  the  office  of  a  daily  journal 
as  a  mechanical  paragraphist.  It  was  his  bus- 
iness to  sit  at  a  desk,  in  a  corner  of  the  edi- 
torial room,  ready  to  be  called  upon  for  any  of 
the  miscellaneous  work  of  the  day;  yet  you  re- 
member how  absolutely  and  how  good-humored 
ly  ready  he  was  for  any  suggestion  ;how  punctu- 
ally and  industriously  reliable  in  the  following 
out  of  the  wish  once  expressed ;  how  cheerful 
and  present-minded  his  work  when  he  might 
excusably  have  been  so  listless  and  abstracted. 
We  loved  the  man  for  the  entireness  of  the 
fidelity  with  which  he  served  us.  When  he 
left  us,  we  were  very  reluctant  to  part  with 
him;  but  we  could  not  object — he  was  to  take 
the  lead  in  another  periodical." 

During  the  six  months  or  so  that  Poe  was 
engaged  on  the  Mirror — the  whole  of  which 
time  Willis  asserts  4<he  was  invariably  punc- 
tual and  industrious,"  and  was  daily  "at  his 
desk  in  the  office  from  nine  in  the  morning  till 
the  evening  paper  went  to  press"— during  this 
time  some  of  the  most  remarkable  productions 
of  his  genius,  including  his  poetic  chef-d'oeuvre 
of  "The  Raven,"  were  given  to  the  world. 
This  unique  and  most  original  of  poems  first 
appeared  in  Col  ton's  American  Review  for 
February,  1845,  as  by  "Quarles. "  It  was  at 
once  reprinted  in  the  Evening  Mirror,  and  in 
a  few  weeks  had  spread  over  the  whole  of  the 
United  States,  calling  into  existence  parodies 
and  imitations  innumerable.  Mrs.  Whitman 


48  MEMOIR. 

informs  us  that,  when  "The  Raven,"  appeared, 
Poe  one  evening  electrified  the  gay  company 
assembled  at  a  weekly  reunion  of  noted  artists 
and  men  of  letters,  held  at  the  residence  of  an 
accomplished  poetess  in  Waverley  Place,  by  the 
recitation,  at  the  request  of  his  hostess,  of  this 
wonderful  poem.  After  this,  it  was  of  course 
impossible  to  keep  the  authorship  secret. 
Willis  reprinted  the  poem  with  the  author's 
name  attached,  remarking  that,  in  his  opinion, 
"it  was  the  most  effective  single  example  of 
fugitive  poetry  ever  published  in  this  country, 
and  is  unsurpassed  in  English  poetry  for  subtle 
conception,  masterly  ingenuity  of  versifica- 
tion, and  consistent  sustaining  of  imaginative 
lift."  It  carried  its  author's  name  and  fame 
from  shore  to  shore;  drew  admiring  testimony 
from  some  of  the  first  of  English  poets,  and 
finally  made  him  the  lion  of  the  season.  And 
for  this  masterpiece  of  genius — this  poem 
which  has  probably  done  more  for  the  renown 
of  American  letters  than  any  other  single  work 
— it  is  alleged  that  Poe,  then  at  the  height  of 
his  renown,  received  the  sum  of  ten  dollars, 
that  is,  about  two  pounds: 

In  the  February  number  of  Graham's  Maga- 
zine for  this  same  year  appeared  a  biographi- 
cal and  critical  sketch  of  Edgar  Poe  by  James 
Russell  Lowell.  In  many  respects  we  deem  it 
the  best  critique  on  his  genius  that  we  have 
yet  seen,  and  although  the  estimate  formed  of 
Poe's  poetic  precocity  may  not  be  perfectly 
just,  it  is  difficult  to  find  fault  with  the  admir- 
able analyzation  of  his  prose  writings.  It  is 


MEMOIR  49 

somewhat  singular,  however,  that  in  the  col- 
lection of  Poe's  works  edited  by  Griswold,  Mr. 
Lowell  should  permit  the  continual  reprinting 
of  this  critique  "with  a  few  alterations  and 
omissions,"  when  those  very  omissions 
serve  to  give  color  to  one  of  Griswold's  vilest 
charges,  that  of  the  alleged  theft  of  Captain 
Brown's  Conchology  book.  In  the  beginning 
of  this  year  the  Broadway  Journal  was  started, 
and  in  March  Poe  was  associated  with  two 
journalists  in  its  management.  He  had  writ- 
ten for  it  from  the  first,  but  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  editorial  arrangement  until  the  tenth 
number.  One  of  the  most  noticeable  of  his 
contributions  was  a  critique  on  the  poems  of 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  to  whom  he 
shortly  afterwards  dedicated,  in  most  admiring  ' 
terms,  a  selection  of  his  poems,  published  by 
Messrs.  Wiley  &  Putman,  under  the  title  "The 
Raven  and  Other  Poems."  About  the  same 
time  the  same  firm  published  a  selection  from 
his  prose  compositions  as  "Tales,"  and  another 
firm  reprinted  his  "Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and 
Picturesque,"  so  that  his  name  was  kept  well 
before  the  public. 

Several  of  the  stories  were  nov/  published  in 
an  English  collection,  as  was  also  "The 
Raven."  Mrs.  Browning,  in  a  private  letter 
written  a  few  weeks  after  the  publication  of 
the  poem,  says: — "This  vivid  writing — this 
power  which  is  felt — has  produced  a  sensation 
here  in  England.  Some  of  my  friends  are 
taken  by  the  fear  of  it,  and  some  by  the  music. 
I  hear  of  persons  who  are  haunted  by  the 


50  MEMOIR. 

'Never  more,'  and  an  acquaintance  of  mine 
who  has  the  misfortune  of  possessing  a  bust  of 
Pallas  cannot  bear  to  look  at  it  in  the  twilight. " 
And  then  alluding  to  Poe's  story  of  "Mesmeric 
Revelations,"  which  some  English  journals 
accepted  as  a  faithful  record  of  facts,  the 
Poetess  resumes: — "  Then  there  is  a  tale  going 
the  rounds  of  the  newspapers  about  mesmer- 
ism, which  is  throwing  us  all  into  'most 
admired  disorder' — dreadful  doubts  as  to 
whether  it  can  be  true,  as  the  children  say  of 
ghost  stories.  The  certain  thing  about  it  is 
the  power  of  the  writer. " 

By  this  time  Edgar  Poe  had  become  person- 
ally known  to  and  admired  by  a  large  number 
of  the  literati  of  New  York,  "whose  interest 
in  his  writings,"  remarks  Mrs.  Whitman, 
"was  manifestly  enhanced  by  the  perplexing 
anomalies  of  his  character,  and  by  the  singular 
magnetism  of  his  presence."  One  who  knew 
him  at  this  period  of  his  life,  says: — "Every- 
thing about  him  distinguished  him  as  a  man  of 
mark;  his  countenance,  person,  and  gait, 
were  alike  characteristic.  His  features  were 
regular,  and  decidedly  handsome.  His  com- 
plexion was  clear  and  dark ;  the  color  of  his 
fine  eyes  seemingly  a  dark  gray,  but  on  closer 
inspection  they  were  seen  to  be  of  that  neutral 
violet  tint  which  is  so  difficult  to  define.  His 
forehead  was,  without  exception,  the  finest  in 
proportion  and  expression  that  we  have  ever 
seen." 

Edgar  Poe  left  the  Mirror  to  take  charge  of 
the  Broadway  Journal,  the  sole  management 


MEMOIR.  51 

of  which,  however,  did  not  devolve  upon  him 
until  July,  whilst  it  was  not  till  the  following 
October  that  he  became  proprietor  as  well  as 
editor  of  this  publication.  His  confederates 
do  not  appear  to  have  invested  much  money 
or  talent  in  the  undertaking,  and  when  they 
retired  and  left  the  poet  in  entire  possession  of 
the  publication,  he  would  not  seem  to  have 
added  much  to  his  worldly  goods  by  the  acqui- 
sition, 

In  March  he  gave  a  lecture  on  the  American 
poets  in  the  library  of  the  New  York  Historical 
Society,  and  it  attracted  much  attention,  not 
only  by  the  originality  and  courage  of  his  re- 
marks, but  by  the  fascination  of  his  presence, 
by  his  eloquence,  and  personal  beauty.  The 
furore  which  his  lecture  created  caused  him  to 
be  asked  to  Boston,  and  in  the  autumn  he 
accepted  an  invitation  to  recite  a  poem  in  the 
lyceum  of  that  city.  "When  he  accepted  the 
invitation,"  avers  Griswold,  "he  intended  to 
write  an  original  poem,  upon  a  subject  which 
he  said  had  haunted  his  imagination  for  years, 
but  cares,  anxieties,  and  feebleness  of  will 
prevented,  and  a  week  before  the  appointed 
night  he  wrote  a  friend  imploring  assistance. 
'You  compose  with  such  astonishing  facility,' 
he  urged  in  his  letter,  'that  you  can  easily  fur- 
nish one  quite  soon  enough,  a  poem  that  shall 
be  equal  to  my  reputation.  For  the  love  of 
God  I  beseech  you  to  help  me  in  this  extrem- 
ity.'  The  lady  wrote  him  kindly,  advising 
him  judiciously,  but  promising  to  attempt  the 
fulfillment  of  his  wishes.  She  was,  however, 


54  MEMOIR. 

an  invalid,  and  so  failed.  At  last,  instead  of 
pleading  illness,  as  he  had  previously  done  on 
a  similar  occasion,  he  determined  to  read  his 
poem,  of  'Al  Aaraaf. '"  It  is  impossible  to 
say  how  much,  if  any,  of  his  story  is  true. 
That  a  poem  equal  to  his  reputation  could  have 
been  composed  in  a  week,  or  in  any  length  of 
time,  by  Mrs.  Osgood,  the  friend  alluded  to, 
none  knew  better  to  be  impossible  than  Poe. 
The  lady,  however,  died  before  the  publica- 
tion of  the  "Memoirs,"  therefore  Griswold, 
who  was  her  confidant,  was  pretty  safe  in  tell- 
ing the  tale.  One  who  was  present  on  the 
occasion  of  the  recitation  informs  us  that  the 
lecture-course  of  the  Boston  Lyceum  was  wan- 
ing in  popularity,  and  that  Poe's  fame  being  at 
its  zenith,  he  was  invited  to  deliver  a  poem  at 
the  opening  of  the  winter  session.  *4I  remem- 
ber him  well,"  he  remarks,  "as  he  came  on 
the  platform.  He  was  the  best  realization  of 
a  poet  in  feature,  air,  and  manner,  that  I  had 
ever  seen,  and  the  unusual  paleness  of  his  face 
added  to  its  aspect  of  melancholy  interest.  He 
delivered  a  poem  that  no  one  understood,  but 
at  its  conclusion  gave  the  audience  a  treat 
which  almost  redeemed  their  disappointment. 
This  was  the  recitation  of  his  own  'Raven,' 
which  he  repeated  with  thrilling  effect.  It 
was  something  well  worth  treasuring  in  mem- 
ory."  "Poe,"  he  adds,  "after  he  returned  to 
Mew  York,  was  much  incensed  at  Boston  criti- 
cism on  his  poem." 

The  poet  was  not  probably  incensed  to  any 
very  great  extent ;    but  doubtless  found  it  a 


MEMOIR.  53 

profitable  hit  for  his  journal  to  make  what  he 
termed  a  "bobbery. "  A  week  after  the  lec- 
ture, therefore,  he  began  to  comment,  in  a 
tone  of  playful  badinage,  upon  the  remarks 
made  by  some  Bostonian  papers  with  respect 
to  it.  In  the  Broadway  Journal  for  November 
ist,  Poe,  after  quoting  a  paragraph  from  a 
paper  defending  him  from  the  abuse  of  the 
Boston  journals,  says:  "Our  excellent  friend 
Major  Noah  has  suffered  himself  to  be  cajoled 
by  that  most  beguiling  of  all  little  divinities, 
Miss  Walters  of  the  Transcript.  We  have 
been  looking  all  over  her  article,  with  the  aid 
of  a  taper,  to  see  if  we  could  discover  a  single 
syllable  of  truth  in  it,  and  really  blush  to  ac- 
knowledge that  we  cannot.  The  adorable 
creature  has  been  telling  a  parcel  of  fibs  about 
us,  by  way  of  revenge  for  something  that  we 
did  to  Mr.  Longfellow  (who  admires  her  very 
much),  and  for  calling  her  *a  pretty  little 
witch'  into  the  bargain. 

"The  facts  of  the  case  seem  to  be  these: — 
We  were  invited  to  'deliver'  (stand  and  deliver) 
a  poem  before  the  Boston  Lyceum.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  we  accepted  the  invitation.  The 
audience  was 'large  and  distinguished.'  Mr. 
Gushing  preceded  us  with  a  very  capital  dis- 
course. He  was  much  applauded.  On  arising 
we  were  most  cordially  received.  We  occu- 
pied some  fifteen  minutes  with  an  apology  for 
not  'delivering,'  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  a  di- 
dactic poem — a  didactic  poem,  in  our  opinion, 
being  precisely  no  poem  at  all.  After  some 
further  words — still  of  apology — for  the  'in- 


54  MEMOIR. 

definiti veness, '  and  'general  imbecility*  of 
what  we  had  to  offer — all  so  unworthy  of  a 
Bostonian  audience — we  commenced,  and, 
with  many  interruptions  of  applause,  con- 
cluded. Upon  the  whole,  the  approbation  was 
considerably  more  (the  more  the  pity,  too)  than 
that  bestowed  upon  Mr.  Gushing1. 

"When  we  had  made  an  end,  the  audience 
of  course  arose  to  depart,  and  about  one-tenth 
of  them  probably  had  really  departed  when 
Mr.  Coffin,  one  of  the  managing  committee, 
arrested  those  who  remained  by  the  announce- 
ment that  we  had  been  requested  to  deliver 
The  Raven.'  We  delivered  'The  Raven* 
forthwith  (without  taking  a  receipt),  were  very 
cordially  applauded  again,  and  this  was  the  end 
of  it,  with  the  exception  of  the  sad  tale  in- 
vented, to  suit  her  own  purposes,  by  that  ami- 
able little  enemy  of  ours,  Miss  Walters.  We 
shall  never  call  a 'woman  'a  pretty  little  witch* 
again  as  long  as  we  live." 

There  is  a  great  deal  more  to  the  same  effect, 
the  whole  of  which  Griswold  reprinted  in  his 
"Memoir,"  but  we  have  been  unable  to  per- 
ceive in  its  good-natured  bantering  anything 
objectionable,  although  Poe's  biographer  ap- 
pears to  have  discovered  something  terrible 
hidden  in  the  jokes  about  the  Bostonians  and 
their  "Frog  Pond,"  and  deems  "it  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  suggest  that  this  must  have  been 
written  before  he  had  quite  recovered  from  the 
long  intoxication  which  maddened  him  at  the 
time  to  which  it  refers."  As  "the  time  to 
which  it  refers"  was  evidently  that  of  the  lee- 


MEMOIR.  65 

ture,  and  as  it  was  written  upwards  of  a  week 
after  that  event,  and  as  Poe  renewed  the  dis- 
cussion in  the  same  tone  three  weeks  later, 
"the  long  intoxication"  must  indeed  have  been 
an  unusually  lengthy  one.  One  paragraph 
from  Poe's  second  notice  of  the  affair  will 
doubtless  suffice.  "We  know  very  well  that, 
among  a  certain  clique  of  the  Frogpondians, 
there  existed  a  predetermination  to  abuse  us 
under  aay  circumstances.  We  knew  that  write 
what  we  would  they  would  swear  it  to  be 
worthless.  We  knew  that  were  we  to  compose 
for  them  a  'Paradise  Lost'  they  would  pro- 
nounce it  an  indifferent  poem.  It  would  have 
been  very  weak  in  us,  then,  to  put  ourselves 
to  the  trouble  of  attempting  to  please 
these  people.  We  preferred  pleasing  our- 
selves. We  read  before  them  a  'juvenile,'  a 
very  'juvenile,'  poem,  and  thus  the  Frogpon- 
dians were  had,  were  delivered  up  to  the 
enemy  bound  hand  and  foot.  Never  were  a 
set  of  people  more  completely  demolished. 
They  have  blustered  and  flustered,  but  what 
have  they  done  or  said  that  has  not  made  them 
more  thoroughly  ridiculous?  what  in  the  name 
of  Thomas,  is  it  possible  for  them  to  do  or  to 
say?  We  'delivered'  them  the  'juvenile 
poem,'  and  they  received  it  with  applause. 
This  is  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the 
clique  (contemptible  in  numbers  as  in  every- 
thing else)  were  overruled  by  the  rest  of  the 
assembly.  These  malignants  did  not  dare  to 
interrupt  by  their  preconcerted  hisses  the  re- 
spectful and  profound  attention  of  the  major- 


56  MEMOIR. 

ity.  .  .  .  The  poem  being  thus  well  received  in 
spite  of  this  ridiculous  little  cable,  the  next 
thing  to  be  done  was  to  abuse  it  in  the  papers. 
Here  they  imagined  they  were  sure  of  their 
game.  But  what  have  they  accomplished? 
The  poem,  they  say,  is  bad.  We  admit  it. 
We  insisted  upon  this  fact  in  our  prefatory  re- 
marks, and  we  insist  upon  it  now,  over  and 
over  again."  .  .  . 

And  these  hurried  newspaper  jottings,  which 
Griswold  himself  admits  were  written  when 
Poe  was  suffering  from  "cares,  anxieties,  and 
feebleness  of  will,"  and  when,  as  he  elsewhere 
shows,  the  poor  persecuted  poet  was  in  pecuni- 
ary difficulties,  and  when,  not  able  to  pay  for 
assistance,  he  was  obliged  somehow  to  write 
nearly  all  the  journal  himself;  and  yet,  under 
all  these  conflicting  ills,  these  few  jocular, 
although  overstrained,  jottings  are  unearthed 
and  adduced  as  evidence  of  Poe's  irretrievably 
bad  nature.  It  is  a  more  pleasant  task  than 
having  to  refer  to  such  distorted  views  of  envy, 
hatred,  and  malice,  to  turn  to  the  picture  which 
Mrs.  Osgood  gives  of  Poe  at  this  point  in  his 
life.  "My  first  meeting  with  the  poet,"  she 
remarks,  "was  at  the  Astor  House.  A  few 
days  previous  Mr.  Willis  had  handed  me  at  the 
table  d'hote  that  strange  and  thrilling  poem 
entitled  'The  Raven,'  saying  that  the  author 
wanted  my  opinion  of  it.  Its  effect  upon  me 
was  so  singular,  so  like  that  of  'weird,  un- 
earthly music,'  that  it  was  with  a  feeling 
almost  of  dread  I  heard  he  desired  an  intro- 
duction. Yet  I  could  not  refuse  without  seem- 


MEMOIR.  57 

ing  ungrateful,  because  I  had  just  heard  of  his 
enthusiastic  and  partial  eulogy  of  my  writings 
in  his  lecture  on  American  Literature.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  morning  when  I  was  sum- 
moned to  the  drawing-room  by  Mr.  Willis  to 
receive  him.  With  his  proud  and  beautiful 
head  erect,  his  dark  eyes  flashing  with  the 
electric  light  of  feeling  and  of  thought,  a  pecu- 
liar, an  inimitable  blending  of  sweetness  and 
of  hauteur  in  his  expression  and  manner,  he 
greeted  me  calmly,  gravely,  almost  coldly,  yet 
with  so  marked  an  earnestness  that  1  could  not 
help  being  deeply  impressed  by  it.  From  that 
moment  until  his  death  we  were  friends." 
Again  she  writes  of  Poe — "I  have  never  seen 
him  otherwise  than  gentle,  generous,  well- 
bred,  and  fastidiously  refined.  To  a  sensitive 
and  delicately-nurtured  woman  there  was  a 
peculiar  and  irresistible  charm  in  the  chivalric, 
graceful,  and  almost  tender  reverence  with 
which  he  invariably  approached  all  women  who 
won  his  respect." 

Another  and  still  more  devoted  friend  of  the 
fascinating  poet,  Mrs.  Whitman,  quotes  the 
opinions  of  "a  woman  of  fine  genius,"  who  at 
this  time  made  Poe's  acquaintance.  4tlt  was 
in  the  brilliant  circles,"  she  says,  "that  assem- 
bled in  the  winter  of  1845-46  at  the  houses  of 
Mr.  Dewy,  Miss  Anna  Lynch,  Mr.  Lawson, 
and  others,  that  we  first  met  Edgar  Poe.  His 
manners  were  at  these  reunions  refined  and 
pleasing,  and  his  style  and  scope  of  conversa- 
tion that  of  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar.  What- 
ever may  have  been  his  previous  career,  there 


58  MEMOIR. 

was  nothing  in  his  appearance  or  manner  to 
indicate  his  excesses.  He  delighted  in  the  so- 
ciety of  superior  women,  and  had  an  exquisite 
perception  of  all  graces  of  manner  and  shades 
of -expression.  We  all  recollect  the  interest 
felt  at  the  time  in  everything  emanating  from 
his  pen — the  relief  it  was  from  the  dullness  of 
ordinary  writers — the  certainty  of  something 
fresh  and  suggestive.  His  critiques  were  read 
with  avidity;  not  that  he  convinced  the  judg- 
'ment,  but  that  people  felt  their  ability  and 
their  courage.  Right  or  wrong,  he  was  ter- 
ribly in  earnest."  "And, "  as  Mrs.  Whitman 
adds,  "like  De  Quincey,  he  never  supposed  any- 
thing, he  always  knew." 

This  last  lady,  in  her  thoughtful  work  on 
"Edgar  Poe  and  his  Critics"  recounts  an  inci- 
dent of  the  poet  which  occurred  at  one  of  the 
soirees  he  was  accustomed  to  attend.  "A 
lady,  noted  for  her  great  lingual  attainments, 
wishing  to  apply  a  wholesome  check  to  the 
vanity  of  a  young  author,  proposed  inviting 
him  to  translate  for  the  company  a  difficult 
passage  in  Greek,  of  which  language  she  knew 
him  to  be  profoundly  ignorant,  although  given 
to  a  rather  pretentious  display  of  Greek  quo- 
tations in  his  published  writings.  Poe's  earn- 
est and  persistent  remonstrance  against  this 
piece  of  mechancete  alone  averted  the  embar- 
rassing test.  Trifling  as  this  anecdote  may 
appear,  it  is  a  good  proof  of  that  generous  and 
charitable  disposition  which  those  who  knew 
him  only  through  Griswold's  "Memoir,"  have 
so  unwarrantably  denied  him  the  possession 


MEMOIR.  59 

of.  Reverting  to  Mrs.  Whitman's  book,  we 
learn  that  "sometimes  his  fair  young  wife  was 
seen  with  him  at  these  weekly  assemblages  in 
Waverley  Place.  She  seldom  took  part  in  the 
conversation,  but  the  memory  of  her  sweet 
and  girlish  face,  always  animated  and  viva- 
cious, repels  the  assertion,  afterwards  so  cruelly 
and  recklessly  made,  that  she  died  a  victim 
to  the  neglect  and  unkindness  of  her 
husband,  who,  as  it  has  been  said,  'deliber- 
ately  sought  her  death  that  he  might  embalm 
her  memory  in  immortal  dirges.'  "  Gilfillan 
tells  us  that  Poe  caused  the  death  of  his  wife 
that  he  might  have  a  fitting  theme  for  "The 
Raven;"  but  unfortunately  for  the  truth  of 
that  reverend  gentleman's  theory,  the  poem 
was  published  two  years  previous  to  the  event 
which  he  so  ingeniously  assumed  it  to  com- 
memorate. Friend  and  foe  alike,  who  knew 
anything  of  Poe,  bear  testimony  to  the  unvary- 
ing kindness  and  affection  of  the  poet  for  his 
youthful  wife.  "It  is  well  known  to  those  ac- 
quainted with  the  parties,"  says  Mrs.  Whit- 
man, "that  the  young  wife  of  Edgar  Poe  died 
of  lingering  consumption,  which  manifested  it- 
self early  in  her  girlhood.  All  who  have  had 
opportunities  for  observation  in  the  matter 
have  noticed  her  husband's  tender  devotion  to 
her  during  her  prolonged  illness.  ...  It  is 
true  that,  notwithstanding  her  vivacity  and 
cheerfulness  at  the  time  we  have  alluded  to, 
her  health  was  even  then  rapidly  sinking,  and 
it  was  for  her  dear  sake,  and  for  the  recovery 
of  that  peace  which  had  been  so  fatally  imper- 


60  MEMOIR. 

iled  amid  the  irritations  and  anxieties  of  his 
New  York  life,  that  Poe  left  the  city  and  re- 
moved to  the  little  Dutch  cottage  in  Fordham, 
where  he  passed  the  three  remaining  years  of 
his  life." 

The  labors  of  Edgar  Poe  during  his  posses- 
sion of  the  Broadway  Journal  must  have  been 
enormous.  Week  after  week  he  wrote  a  large 
portion  of  its  folio  pages  himself,  in  addition 
to  performing  the  thousand  duties  of  an  edi- 
torial proprietor — the  "much  friendly  assist- 
ance," which  Griswold,  who  said  also  that  he 
was  friendless,  asserts  he  received  in  his  man- 
agement of  the  journal,  being  chiefly  confined 
to  the  contribution  of  a  few  verses.  He  was 
only  able  to  comply  with  this  great  strain 
upon  his  mental  and  physical  strength  by  re- 
printing many  of  his  published  tales  and  poems 
in  the  columns  of  his  paper,  and  even  this  sys- 
tem could  not  have  afforded  very  material  re- 
lief, as  every  article  was  submitted  to  the 
most  scrutinizing  supervision,  and  an  infinity 
of  corrections  and  alterations  made.  A  jour- 
nal of  his  own,  in  which  he  coald  give  vent  to 
his  untrammeled  opinions,  unchecked  by  the 
mercantile,  and,  undoubtedly,  more  prudential 
views  of  publishers,  had  long  been  one  of  Poe' s 
most  earnest  desires,  and  he  attained  his  wish 
in  the  possession  of  the  Broadway  Journal; 
but  poverty,  ill-health,  want  of  worldly  knowl- 
edge, and  a  sick — a  dying  wife,  all  combined 
to  overpower  his  efforts.  What  could  the  un- 
fortunate poet  do?  During  the  few  months 
that  he  had  complete  control  of  the  moribund 


MEMOIR.  61 

journal  he  made  it,  considering  all  things,  as 
good  a  cheap  literary  paper  as  was  ever  pub- 
lished. All  his  efforts,  however,  were  insuffi- 
cient to  keep  it  alive,  so,  on  the  3d  of  Janu- 
ary, 1846,  the  poor  poet  was  obliged  to  resign 
his  favorite  hobby  of  a  paper  of  his  own.  It 
may  be  pointed  out  that  whilst  in  possession 
of  his  journal  he  availed  himself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity of  displaying  his  almost  Quixotic  feel- 
ings of  gratitude — tho  e  feelings  denied  him 
by  the  ruthless  Griswold — towards  all  who  had 
befriended  him,  and  n  >t  only  to  the  living 
whose  aid  might  continue,  but  towards  those 
who  had  already  entered  into  the  "hollow 
vale."  His  generous  tributes  to  departed 
worth  are  proofs  of  his  nobility  of  heart,  of 
greater  weight  than  any  disproof  the  malign- 
ity of  Griswold  would  invent. 

Besides  the  work  on  his  own  paper,  Poe  had 
somehow  contrived  to  contribute  a  few  tales 
and  sketches  to  some  of  the  magazines,  and, 
among  others,  to  Mr.  Godey's  Lady's  Book. 
In  the  May  number  of  this  publication  he  com- 
menced a  series  of  critiques,  entitled  the  "Lit- 
erati of  New  York,"  "in  which  he  professed," 
remarks  Griswold,  with  his  wonted  sneer,  "to 
give  some  honest  opinions  at  random  respect- 
ing their  authorial  merits."  These  essays 
were  immensely  successful,  but  the  caustic 
style  of  some  of  them  produced  terrible  com- 
motion in  the  ranks  of  mediocrity,  as  may  be 
seen  from  Mr.  Godey's  notes  to  the  readers 
respecting  the  anonymous  and  other  letters  he 
receives  concerning  them.  "We  are  not  to 


62  MEMOIR. 

be  intimidated, "  he  remarks,  "by  a  threat  of 
the  loss  of  friends,  or  turned  from  our  pur- 
pose by  honeyed  words.  .  .  .  Many  attempts 
have  been  made  and  are  being  made  by  vari- 
ous persons  to  forestall  public  opinion.  We 
have  the  name  of  one  person.  Others  are 
busy  with  reports  of  Mr.  Poe's  illness.  Mr. 
Poe  has  been  ill,  but  we  have  letters  from 
him  of  very  recent  dates,  also  a  new  batch  of 
the  Literati,  which  shows  anything  but  feeble- 
ness either  of  body  or  mind.  Almost  every 
paper  that  we  exchange  with  has  praised  our 
new  enterprise,  and  spoken  in  high  terms  of 
Mr.  Poe's  opinion."  Dissatisfied  with  the 
manner  in  which  his  literary  weakness  had 
been  reviewed  by  Poe,  a  Dunn  English  or 
Dunn  Brown,  for  he  is  duplicately  named, 
instead  of  waiting,  as  Griswold  did,  for  the 
poet's  death,  when  every  ass  could  have  its 
kick  at  the  lion's  carcase,  "retaliated  in  a 
personal  newspaper  article,"  remarks  Duy- 
ckinck,in  his  invaluable  Encyclopedia,  and  "the 
communication  was  reprinted  in  the  Evening 
Mirror  in  New  York,  whereupon  Poe  instituted 
a  libel  suit  against  that  journal,  and  recovered 
several  hundred  dollars  for  defamation  of 
character. ' ' 

If  there  be  any  one  entertaining  the 
slightest  belief  in  Griswold's  veracity,  let 
him  now  refer  to  his  unfaithful  account  of  this 
affair  in  the  soi-disant  "Memoir,"  and  compare 
it  with  the  facts  of  the  case.  He  states  that 
Dunn  English  "chose  to  evince  his  resentment 
of  the  critic's  unfairness  by  the  publication  of 


MEMOIR.  63 

a  card,  in  which  he  painted  strongly  the  in- 
firmities of  Poe's  life  and  character. "  "Poe's 
article,"  he  continues,  "was  entirely  false  in 
what  purported  to  be  the  facts.  The  state- 
ment of  Dr.  English  appeared  in  the  New  York 
Mirror  of  the  23d  June,  and  on  the  27th  Mr. 
Poe  sent  to  Mr.  Godey,  for  publication  in  the 
Lady's  Book,  his  rejoinder,  which  Mr.  Godey 
very  properly  declined  to  print."  This  led, 
asserts  Griswold,  "to  a  disgraceful  quarrel," 
and  to  the  " premature  conclusion"  of  the 
Literati;  and  that  Poe  "ceased  to  write  for  the 
Lady's  Book  in  consequence  of  Mr.  Godey's 
justifiable  refusal  to  print  in  that  miscellany 
his  'Reply  to  Dr.  English.'  "  Poe's  review 
of  "English"  appeared  in  the  second  or  June 
number  of  the  Literati,  and  from  our  knowl- 
edge of  Griswold 's  habitual  inaccuracy,  we 
were  not  surprised  to  find,  upon  reference  to 
the  magazine,  that  the  sketches  ran  their 
stipulated  course  until  October,  and  after  that 
date  Poe  still  continuing  a  contributor  to  the 
Lady's  Book;  nor  were  we  surprised  to  find 
Mr.  Godey  writing  to  the  Knickerbocker 
magazine  in  defense  and  praise  of  Poe's  "hon- 
orable and  blameless  conduct;"  but  what  cer- 
tainly did  startle  us  was  to  discover  that  the 
whole  of  the  personalities  of  the  supposed 
critique,  included  in  the  collection  of  Poe's 
works  edited  by  Griswold,  were  absent  from 
the  real  critique  published  in  the  Lady's 
Book! 

Recoiling  from  such  unsavory  subjects,  it  is 
a  pleasant  change  to  look  upon  the  charming 


64  MEMOIR. 

picture  of  the  cruelly  belibeled  poet,  and  his 
diminutive  menage,  as  portrayed  by  Mrs. 
Osgood.  "It  was  in  his  own  simple  yet  poeti- 
cal home,"  she  remarks,  "that  to  me  the  char- 
acter of  Edgar  Poe  appeared  in  its  most  beau- 
tiful light.  Playful,  affectionate,  witty, 
alternately  docile  and  wayward  as  a  petted 
child — for  his  young,  gentle,  and  idolized  wife, 
and  for  all  who  came,  he  had,  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  most  harassing  literary  duties,  a 
kind  word,  a  pleasant  smile,  a  graceful  and 
courteous  attention.  At  his  desk,  beneath 
the  romantic  picture  of  his  loved  and  lost 
Lenore,  he  would  sit  hour  after  hour,  patient, 
assiduous,  and  uncomplaining,  tracing  in  an 
exquisitely  clear  chirography,  and  with  almost 
superhuman  swiftness,  the  lightning  thoughts, 
the  'rare  and  radiant'  fancies  as  they  flashed 
through  his  wonderful  and  ever-wakened 
brain.  I  recollect  one  morning  toward  the 
close  of  his  residence  in  this  city,  when  he 
seemed  unusually  gay  and  light-hearted.  Vir- 
ginia, his  sweet  wife,  had  written  me  a  press- 
ing invitation  to  come  to  them ;  and  I,  who 
could  never  resist  her  affectionate  summons, 
and  who  enjoyed  his  society  far  more  in  his 
own  home  than  elsewhere,  hastened  to  Amity 
Street.  I  found  him  just  completing  his  series 
of  papers  entitled  "The  Literati  ot  New  York. ' 
'See,'  said  he,  displaying  in  laughing  triumph 
several  little  rolls  of  narrow  paper  (he  always 
wrote  thus  for  the  press),  'I  am  going  to  show 
you,  by  the  difference  of  length  in  these,  the 
different  degrees  of  estimation  in  which  I  hold 


MEMOIR.  65 

all  you  literary  people.  In  each  of  these,  one 
of  you  is  rolled  up  and  fully  discussed.  Come, 
Virginia,  help  me!'  And  one  by  one  they 
unfolded  them.  At  last  they  came  to  one 
which  seemed  interminable.  Virginia  laugh- 
ingly ran  to  one  corner  of  the  room  with  one 
end,  and  her  husband  to  the  opposite  with  the 
other.  *  And  whose  lengthened  sweetness  long 
drawn  out  is  that?'  said  I.  'Hear  her,'  he 
cried,  'just  as  if  her  little  vain  heart  didn't 
tell  her  it's  herself!'  ' 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1846  that  the  poet 
removed  his  dying  wife  to  the  quietude  and 
repose  of  the  cottage  at  Fordham,  Westchester 
County,  near  New  York.  "Here,"  exclaims 
Mrs.  Whitman,  in  her  exalted  essay  on  "Edgar 
Poe  and  his  Critics" — the  noblest  memorial 
yet  raised  to  the  poet's  memory — "here  he 
watched  her  failing  breath  in  loneliness  and 
privation  through  many  solitary  moons,  until, 
on  a  desolate,  dreary  day  of  the  ensuing  win- 
ter, he  saw  her  remains  borne  from  beneath 
its  lowly  roof.  "  The  fullest  and  most  interest- 
ing account  of  Poe's  life  at  Fordham  is  to  be 
found  in  the  "Reminiscences"  of  a  brother 
author.  Of  his  first  visit  to  Fordham  to  see 
Poe  he  says — 

"We  found  him  and  his  wife  and  his  wife's 
mother,  who  was  his  aunt,  living  in  a  little 
cottage  at  the  top  of  a  hill.  There  was  an  acre 
or  two  of  greensward,  fenced  in  about  the 
house,  as  smooth  as  velvet,  and  as  clean  as 
the  best  kept  carpet.  There  was  some  grand 

5  Foe's  Poems. 


66  MEMOIR. 

old  cherry-trees  in  the  yard  that  threw  a  mas- 
sive shade  around  them. 

"Poe  had  somehow  caught  a  full-grown  bob- 
olink. He  had  put  him  in  a  cage,  which  he 
had  hung  on  a  nail  driven  into  the  trunk  of  a 
cherry-tree.  The  poor  bird  was  as  unfit  to 
live  in  his  cage  as  his  captor  was  to  live  in  the 
world.  He  was  as  restless  as  his  jailer,  and 
sprang  continually  in  a  fierce,  frightened  way 
from  one  side  of  the  cage  to  the  other.  I 
pitied  him,  but  Poe  was  bent  on  training  him. 
There  he  stood  with  his  arms  crossed  before 
the  tormented  bird,  his  sublime  trust  in  attain- 
ing the  impossible  apparent  in  his  whole  self. 
So  handsome,  so  impassive  in  his  wonderful, 
intellectual  beauty,  so  proud  and  reserved, 
and  yet  so  confidentially  communicative,  so 
entirely  a  gentleman  upon  all  occasions  that  I 
ever  saw  him ;  so  tasteful,  so  good  a  talker  was 
Poe  that  he  impressed  himself  and  his  wishes, 
even  without  words,  upon  those  with  whom 
he  spoke.  .  .  Poe's  voice  was  melody  itself. 
He  always  spoke  low,  even  in  a  violent  discus- 
sion, compelling  his  hearers  to  listen  if  they 
would  know  his  opinion,  his  facts,  fancies, 
philosophy,  or  his  weird  imaginings.  These 
last  usually  flowed  from  his  pen,  seldom  from 
his  tongue. 

*'On  this  occasion  I  was  introduced  to  the 
young  wife  of  the  poet,  and  to  the  mother, 
then  more  than  sixty  years  of  age.  She  was  a 
tall,  dignified  old  lady,  with  a  most  lady-like 
manner,  and  her  black  dress,  though  old  and 
much  worn,  looked  really  elegant  on  her.  .  .  . 


MEMOIR.  67 

Mrs.  Poe  looked  very  young;  she  had  large 
black  eyes,  and  a  pearly  whiteness  of  com- 
plexion, which  was  a  perfect  pallor.  Her  pale 
face,  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  her  raven  hair 
gave  her  an  unearthly  look.  One  felt  that  she 
was  almost  a  disrobed  spirit,  and  when  she 
coughed  it  was  made  certain  that  she  was 
rapidly  passing  away.  The  mother  seemed 
hale  and  strong,  and  appeared  to  be  a  sort  of 
universal  Providence  for  her  strange  children. 
"The  cottage  had  an  air  of  taste  and  gentility 
that  must  have  been  lent  to  it  by  the  presence 
of  its  inmates.  So  neat,  so  poor,  so  unfur- 
nished, and  yet  so  charming  a  dwelling  I  never 
saw.  .  .  The  sitting-room  was  laid  with  check 
matting;  four  chairs,  a  light  stand,  and  a 
hanging  book-shelf  completed  its  furniture. 
There  were  pretty  presentation  copies  of  books 
on  the  little  shelves,  and  the  Brownings  had 
posts  of  honor  on  the  stand.  With  quiet  ex- 
ultation Poe  drew  from  his  side-pocket  a  letter 
that  he  had  recently  received  from  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning.  He  read  it  to  us.  It  was 
very  flattering.  She  told  Poe  that  his  poem 
of  'The  Raven'  had  awakened  a  fit  of  horror 
in  England.  .  .  He  was  at  this  time  greatly 
depressed.  Their  extreme  poverty,  the  sick- 
ness of  his  wife,  and  his  own  inability  to  write 
sufficiently  accounted  for  this.  .  .  We  strolled 
away  into  the  woods,  and  had  a  very  cheerful 
time  till  some  one  proposed  a  game  of  leaping. 
I  think  it  must  have  been  Poe,  as  he .  was 
expert  in  the  exercise.  Two  or  three  gentle- 
men agreed  to  leap  with  him,  and  though  one 


68  MEMOIR. 

of  them  was  tall,  and  had  been  a  hunter  in 
times  past,  Poe  still  distanced  them  all.  But, 
alas!  his  gaiters,  long  worn  and  carefully  kept, 
were  both  burst  in  the  grand  leap  that  made 
him  victor.  ...  I  was  certain  he  had  no  other 
shoes,  boot,  or  gaiters.  ...  if  any  one  had 
money,  who  had  the  effrontery  to  offer  it  to 
the  poet?" 

This  same  writer,  becoming  intimate  with 
the  poet,  made  several  visits  to  Fordham. 
4 'The  autumn  came,"  he  resumes,  "and  Mrs. 
Poe  sank  rapidly  in  consumption,  and  I  saw 
her  in  her  bedchamber.  Everything  here 
was  so  neat,  so  purely  clean,  so  scant  and  pov- 
erty-stricken. .  .  .  There  was  no  clothing  on 
the  bed,  which  was  only  straw,  but  a  snow- 
white  spread  and  sheets.  The  weather  was 
cold,  and  the  sick  lady  had  the  dreadful  chills, 
that  accompany  the  hectic  fever  of  consump- 
tion. She  lay  on  the  straw  bed,  wrapped  in 
her  husband's  greatcoat,  with  a  large  tortoise- 
shell  cat  in  her  bosom.  The  wonderful  cat 
seemed  conscious  of  her  great  usefulness.  The 
coat  and  the  cat  were  the  sufferer's  only 
means  of  warmth,  except  as  her  husband  held 
her  hands,  and  her  mother  her  feet.  Mrs. 
Clemm  was  passionately  fond  of  her  daughter, 
and  her  distress  on  account  of  her  illness,  and 
poverty,  and  misery,  dreadful  to  see. 

"As  soon  as  I  was  made  aware  of  these  pain- 
ful facts  I  came  to  New  York,  and  enlisted  the 
sympathies  and  services  of  a  lady  whose  heart 
and  hand  were  ever  open  to  the  poor  and  the 
miserable.  .  .  .  The  lady  headed  a  subscrip- 


MEMOIR.  69 

tion,  and  carried  them  sixty  dollars  the  next 
week.  From  the  day  this  kind  lady  first  saw 
the  suffering  family  of  the  poet,  she  watched 
over  them  as  a  mother.  She  saw  them  often, 
and  ministered  to  the  comfort  of  the  dying 
and  the  living.  This  same  generous  lady, 
who,  we  believe,  was  Mrs.  Lewis,  better 
known  as  *  Stella,'  subsequently,  when  the 
poet  died,  received  Mrs.  Clemm  into  her  own 
house,  and  sheltered  her  until  she  could  re- 
turn to  her  friends  in  the  South. "  The  author 
of  these  "Reminiscences"  concludes: — **Poe 
has  been  called  a  bad  man.  He  was  his  own 
enemy,  it  is  true;  but  he  was  a  gentleman  and 
a  scholar.  ...  If  the  scribblers  who  have 
snapped  like  curs  at  his  remains  had  seen  him 
as  his  friends  saw  him,  in  his  dire  necessity 
and  his  great  temptation,  they  would  have 
been  worse  than  they  deem  him  to  have  writ- 
ten as  they  have  concerning  a  man  of  whom 
they  really  knew  next  to  nothing." 

When  this  writer  brought  the  heartrending 
statement  of  the  poor  proud  and  unhappy 
poet's  circumstances — without  Poe's  knowl- 
edge or  connivance — before  the  world,  Willis, 
in  an  article  in  the  Home  Journal,  made  an 
appeal  to  the  public  on  the  poet's  behalf,  sug- 
gesting, at  the  same  time,  that  his  case  was  a 
strong  argument  in  favor  of  the  establishment 
of  an  hospital  for  poor  but  well-educated  per- 
sons. 'His  remarks  are  worth  repetition.  He 
says: — "The  feeling  we  have  long  entertained 
on  this  subject  has  been  freshened  by  a  recent 
paragraph  in  the  Express  announcing  that 


70  MEMOIR. 

Mr.  Edgar  Allan  Poe  and  his  wife  were  both 
dangerously  ill  and  suffering  for  want  of  the 
common  necessaries  of  life.  Here  is  one  of  the 
finest  scholars,  one  of  the  most  original  men 
of  genius,  and  one  of  the  most  industrious  of 
the  literary  profession  of  our  country,  whose 
temporary  suspension  of  labor,  from  bodily 
illness,  drops  him  immediately  to  a  level  with 
the  common  objects  of  public  charity.  There 
is  no  intermediate  stopping-place — no  respect- 
ful shelter  where,  with  the  delicacy  due  to 
genius  and  culture,  he  might  secure  aid,  unad- 
vertised,  till,  with  returning  health,  he  could 
resume  his  labors  and  his  unmortified  sense  of 
independence.  He  must  either  apply  to  indi- 
vidual friends  (a  resource  to  which  death  is 
sometimes  almost  preferable),  or  suffer  down 
to  the  level  where  Charity  receives  claimants, 
but  where  Rags  and  Humiliation  are  the  only 
recognized  ushers  to  her  presence.  Is  this 
right?  Should  there  not  be  in  all  highly 
civilized  communities  an  institution  designed 
expressly  for  educated  and  refined  objects  of 
charity — an  hospital,  a  retreat,  a  home  of 
seclusion  and  comfort,  the  sufficient  claims  to 
which  would  be  such  susceptibilities  as  are  vio- 
lated by  the  above-mentioned  appeal  in  a  daily 
paper?" 

This  noble  and  suggestive  article  of  Mr. 
Willis,  Griswold  maliciously  avers,  was  but  an 
"ingenious  apology  for  Mr.  Poe's  infirmities;" 
and  then  declares  that  the  following  letter, 
which  was  written  just  before  Mrs.  Poe's 
death,  "was  written  for  effect:" — 


MEMOIR.  71 

"MY  DEAR  WILLIS— The  paragraph  which  has  been 
put  in  circulation  respecting  my  wife's  illness,  my  own, 
my  property,  etc.,  is  now  lying  before  me;  together 
with  the  beautiful  lines  by  Mrs.  Locke  and  those  by 

Mrs. ,  to  which  the  paragraph  has  given  rise,  as 

well  as  your  kind  and  manly  comments  in  The  Home 
Journal.  The  motive  of  the  paragraph  I  leave  to  the 
conscience  of  him  or  her  who  wrote  it  or  suggested  it. 
Since  the  thing  is  done,  however,  and  since  the  con- 
cerns of  my  family  are  thus  pitilessly  thrust  before  the 
public,  I  perceive  no  mode  of  escape  from  a  public 
statement  of  what  is  true  and  what  is  erroneous  in  the 
report  alluded  to.  That  my  wife  is  ill,  then,  is  true ; 
and  you  may  imagine  with  what  feelings  I  add,  that 
this  illness,  hopeless  from  the  first,  has  been  heightened 
and  precipitated  by  her  reception,  at  two  different 
periods  of  anonymous  letters — one  enclosing  the  para- 
graph now  in  question,  the  other  those  published  calum- 
nies of  Messrs. ,  for  which  I  yet  hope  to  find 

redress  in  a  court  of  justice. 

"Of  the  facts,  that  I  myself  have  been  long  and  dan- 
gerously ill,  and  that  my  illness  has  been  a  well-under- 
stood thing  among  my  brethren  of  the  press,  the 
best  evidence  is  afforded  by  the  innumerable  para- 
graphs of  personal  and  of  literary  abuse  with  which  I 
have  been  latterly  assailed.  This  matter,  however,  will 
remedy  itself.  At  the  very  first  blush  of  my  new  pros- 
perity, the  gentlemen  who  toadied  me  in  the  old  will 
recollect  themselves  and  toady  me  again.  .  .  .  That  I 
am  'without  friends'  is  a  gross  calumny,  which  I  am 
sure  you  never  could  have  believed,  and  which  a  thou- 
sand noble-hearted  men  would  have  good  right  never  to 
forgive  for  permitting  to  pass  unnoticed  and  undented. 
I  do  not  think,  my  dear  Willis,  that  there  is  any  need  of 
my  saying  more.  I  am  getting  better,  and  may  add,  if 
it  be  any  comfort  to  my  enemies, — that  I  have  little  fear 
of  getting  worse.  The  trufch  is  I  have  a  great  deal  to 
do,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  die  till  it  is 
done.  '  'Sincerely  yours, 

"EDGAR  A.  POE. 

"December  30,  1846." 

Animadverting  upon  this  letter,  the  implac- 


72  MEMOIR. 

able  Griswold  asserts,  notwithstanding  the 
positive  evidence  to  the  contrary,  that  Poe 
"had  not  been  ill  a  great  while,  nor  danger- 
ously at  all :  that  there  was  no  literary  or  per- 
sonal abuse  of  him  in  the  journals ;  and  that 
his  friends  had  been  applied  to  for  money  until 
their  money  was  nearly  exhausted."  As 
already  stated,  a  few  weeks  after  this  letter, 
which  this  calumniator  of  the  dead  declares 
"was  written  for  "effect,"  the  poet's  wife  died; 
and  in  an  autographic  letter  now  before  us, 
Poe  positively  reiterates  the  accusation  that 
his  wife, — "my  poor  Virginia,  was  continually 
tortured  (although  not  deceived)  by  anony- 
mous letters,  and  on  her  deathbed  declared 
that  her  life  had  been  shortened  by  their 
writer."  In  January,  1847,  the  poet's  darling 
wife  died,  and  on  a  desolate  dreary  day  her 
remains  were  interred  in  a  vault  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, in  accordance  with  the  permission  of 
its  owner.  The  loss  of  his  wife  threw  Poe  into 
a  melancholy  stupor  which  lasted  for  several 
weeks;  but  nature  reasserting  her  powers,  he 
gradually  resumed  his  wonted  avocations. 
During  the  whole  of  the  year  the  poet  lived  a 
quiet  secluded  life  with  his  mother-in-law, 
receiving  occasional  visits  from  his  friends  and 
admirers ;  musing  over  the  memory  of  his  lost 
Lenore,  and  thinking  out  the  great  and  crown- 
ing work  of  his  life — Eureka.  An  English 
friend,  who  visited  the  Fordham  cottage  in 
early  autumn  of  1847,  and  spent  several  weeks 
with  its  inmates,  described  to  Mrs.  Whitman 
its  unrivaled  neatness  and  the  quaint  simplic- 


MEMOIR.  73 

ity  of  its  interior  and  surroundings.  It  was, 
at  the  time,  bordered  by  a  flower-garden,  whose 
clumps  of  rare  dahlias,  and  brilliant  beds  of 
autumnal  flowers,  showed,  in  the  careful  cul- 
ture bestowed  upon  them,  the  fine  floral  tastes 
of  the  presiding  spirit. 

The  attention  which  Poe  gave  to  his  birds 
and  flowers  surprised  his  visitor,  who  deemed 
it  inconsistent  with  the  gloom  of  his  writings. 
Another  friend,  who  visited  the  cottage  dur- 
ing the  summer  of  the  same  year,  describes  it 
as  "half-buried  in  fruit-trees,  and  as  having  a 
thick  grove  of  pines  in  its  immediate  neighbor- 
hood. "  "The  proximity  of  the  railroad,  and 
the  increasing  population  of  the  little  village," 
adds  Mrs.  Whitman,  "have  since  wrought 
great  changes  in  the  place.  Round  an  old 
cherry-tree,  near  the  door,  was  a  broad  bank 
of  greenest  turf.  The  neighboring  beds  of 
mignonette  and  heliotrope,  and  the  pleasant 
shade  above,  made  this  a  favorite  seat.  Rising 
at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  for  a  walk  to 
the  magnificent  aqueduct  bridge  over  Harlem 
River,  our  informant  found  the  poet,  with  his 
mother-in-law,  standing  on  the  turf  beneath 
the  cherry-tree,  eagerly  watching  the  move- 
ments of  two  beautiful  birds  that  seemed  con- 
templating a  settlement  in  its  branches.  He 
had  some  rare  tropical  birds  in  cages,  which 
he  cherished  and  petted  with  assiduous  care." 
"Our  English  friend,"  continued  Mrs.  Whit- 
man, "described  Poe  as  giving  to  his  birds  and 
flowers  a  delighted  attention  which  seemed 
quite  inconsistent  with  the  gloomy  and  gro- 

6  Poe's  Poenjs 


74  MEMOIR. 

tesque  character  of  his  writings.  A  favorite 
cat,  too,  enjoyed  his  friendly  patronage,  and 
often  when  he  was  engaged  in  composition  it 
seated  itself  on  his  shoulder,  purring  as  if  in 
complacent  approval  of  the  work  proceeding 
under  its  supervision. 

"During  Poe's  residence  at  Fordham,  a  walk 
to  High  Bridge  was  one  of  his  favorite  and 
habitual  recreations, ' '  remarks  Mrs.  Whitman, 
and  she  describes  the  lofty  and  picturesque 
avenue  across  the  aqueduct,  where,  in  "the 
lonesome  latter  years"  of  his  life,  the  poet  was 
accustomed  to  walk  "at  all  times  of  the  day 
and  night,  often  pacing  the  then  solitary  path- 
way for  hours  without  meeting  a  human 
being. ' '  A  rocky  ledge  in  the  neighborhood, 
partly  covered  with  pines  and  cedars,  and  com- 
manding a  fine  view  of  the  surrounding  coun- 
try, was  also  one  of  his  favorite  resorts,  and 
here,  resumes  our  informant,  "through  long 
summer  days,  and  through  solitary  starlit 
nights,  he  loved  to  sit,  dreaming  his  gorgeous 
walking  dreams,  or  pondering  the  deep  prob- 
lems of  'the  Universe,' — that  grand  'prose 
poem'  to  which  he  devoted  the  last  and  most 
matured  energies  of  his  wonderful  intellect. ' ' 
Towards  the  close  of  this  "most  immemorial 
year,"  this  year  in  which  he  had  lost  his  cousin 
bride,  he  wrote  his  weird  monody  of  "Ula- 
lume. "  Like  so  many  of  his  poems  it  was 
autobiographical,  and,  on  the  poet's  own  au- 
thority, we  are  informed  that  it  was,  "in  its 
basis,  although  not  in  the  precise  correspond- 
ence of  time,  simply  historical."  It  first 


MEMOIR:  75 

appeared  anonymously  in  Col  ton's  American 
Review  for  December,  1847,  as  "Ulalume:  a 
Ballad,"  and,  being  reprinted  in  the  Home 
Journal,  by  an  absurd  mistake  was  ascribed  to 
the  editor,  N.  P.  Willis.  Subsequently,  Mrs. 
Whitman,  being  one  morning  with  Poe  in  the 
Providence  Athenaeum  Library,  asked  him  if 
he  had  seen  the  new  poem,  and  if  he  could  tell 
who  had  written  it.  To  her  surprise  he 
acknowledged  himself  the  author,  and,  turn- 
ing to  a  bound  volume  of  the  Review,  which 
was  on  a  shelf  near  by,  he  wrote  his  name  at 
the  end  of  the  poem,  and  there,  a  few  months 
ago,  a  correspondent  found  it.  The  poem 
originally  possessed  an  additional  verse,  but, 
at  the  suggestion  of  Mrs.  Whitman,  Poe  sub- 
sequently omitted  this,  and  thereby  greatly 
strengthened  the  effect  of  the  whole.  The 
final  and  suppressed  stanza  read  thus : 

"Said  we  then — the  two,  then — Ah,  can  it 
Have  been  that  the  woodlandish  ghouls 
The  pitiful,  the  merciful  ghouls — 

To  bar  up  our  path  and  to  ban  it 

From  the  secret  that  lies  in  these  wolds— 

Had  drawn  up  the  specter  of  a  planet 
From  the  limbo  of  lunary  souls — 

This  sinfully  scintillant  planet 
From  the  Hell  of  the  planetary  souls?" 

Early  in  1848,  Poe  announced  his  intention 
of  delivering  a  series  of  lectures,  with  a  view 
to  raise  a  sufficient  capital  to  enable  him  to 
start  a  magazine  of  his  own.  In  January  of 
this  year  he  thus  wrote  on  the  subject  to  his 
old  and  tried  friend  N.  P  Willis:— 


76  MEMOIR. 

"FORDHAM,  January  22,  1848. 

"Mv  DEAR  MR.  WILLIS — I  am  about  to  make  an  effort 
at  re-establishing  myselt  in  the  literary  world,  and  feel 
that  I  may  depend  upon  your  aid. 

"My  general  aim  is  to  "start  a  magazine,  to  be  called 
The  Stylus ;  but  it  would "  be  useless  to  me,  even  when 
established,  if  not  entirely  out  of  the  control  of  a  pub- 
lisher. 1  mean,  therefore,  to  get  up  a  journal,  which 
shall  be  my  own,  at  all  points.  With  this  ei3d  in  view, 
I  must  get  a  list  of  at  least  five  hundred  subscribers  to 
begin  with — nearly  two  hundred  I  have  already.  I  pro- 
pose, however,  to  go  south  and  west,  among  my  per- 
sonal and  literary  friends — old  College  and  West  Point 
acquaintances — and  see  what  I  can  do.  In  order  to  get 
the  means  of  taking  the  first  step,  I  propose  to  lecture  at 
the  Society  Library,  on  Thursday,  the  3d  of  February 
— and,  that  there  may  be  no  cause  of  squabbling,  my 
subject  shall  not  be  literary  at  all  I  have  chosen  a 
broad  text — 'The  Universe.' 

"Having  thus  given  you  the  facts  of  the  case,  I  leave 
all  the  rest  to  the  suggestions  of  your  o\*  n  tlact  and  gen- 
erosity.— Gratef ully.most  gratetidly,  you  r  friend  always, 

"EDCAR  A.  POE." 

This  letter  was  speedily  followc  d  by  a  pros- 
pectus, addressed  To  the  Public,  "The  Stylus; 
a  Monthly  Journal  of  Literature  Proper,  the 
Fine  Arts,  and  the  Drama.  To  be  edited 
by  Edgar  A.  Poe,"  and  from  it  the  most 
noticeable  paragraphs  are  extracted:  '* Since 
resigning  the  conduct  of  the  Southern  Literary 
Messenger  at  the  beginning  of  its  third  year, 
and  more  especially  since  retiring  from  the 
editorship  of  Graham's  Magazine  soon  after 
the  commencement  of  its  second,  I  have  had 
always  in  view  the  establishment  of  a  monthly 
journal  which  should  retain  one  or  two  of  the 
chief  features  of  the  work  first  mentioned, 
abandoning  or  greatly  modifying  its  general 


MEMOIR.  77 

character;— but  not  until  now  have  I  felt  at 
liberty  to  attempt  the  execution  of  this  design. 
I  shall  be  pardoned  for  speaking  more  directly 
of  the  two  magazines  in  question.  Having  in 
neither  of  them  any  proprietary  right — the 
objects  of  their  worthy  owners,  too,  being  at 
variance  with  my  own — I  found  it  not  only 
impossible  to  effect  anything,  on  the  score  of 
taste,  for  their  mechanical  appearance,  but 
difficult  to  stamp  upon  them  internally  that 
individuality  which  I  believed  essential  to  their 
success.  In  regard  to  the  permanent  influence 
of  such  publications,  it  appears  to  me  that  con- 
tinuity and  a  marked  certainty  of  purpose  are 
requisites  of  vital  importance,  but  attainable 
only  where  one  mind  alone  has  at  least  the 
general  control.  Experience,  to  be  brief,  has 
shown  me  that  in  founding  a  journal  of  my 
own,  lies  my  sole  chance  of  carrying  out  to 
completion  whatever  peculiar  intentions  I  may 
have  entertained. 

"These  intentions  are  now  as  heretofore.  It 
shall  be  the  chief  purpose  of  the  magazine 
proposed  to  become  known  as  one  wherein 
may  be  found  at  all  times,  on  all  topics  within 
its  legitimate  reach,  a  sincere  and  fearless 
opinion.  It  shall  be  a  leading  object  to  assert 
in  precept  and  to  maintain  in  practice  the 
rights,  while  in  effect  it  demonstrates  the 
advantages,  of  an  absolutely  independent  crit- 
icism—a criticism  self-sustained,  guiding  itself 
only  by  intelligible  laws  of  art;  analyzing 
these  laws  as  it  applies  them;  holding  itself 


78  MEMOIR. 

aloof  from  all  personal  bias,  and  acknowledg- 
ing no  fear  save  that  of  the  right. 

44  There  is  no  design,  however,  to  make  the 
journal  a  critical  one  solely,  or  even  very  es- 
pecially. It  will  aim  at  something  more  than 
the  usual  magazine  variety,  and  at  affording  a 
fair  field  for  the  true  talent  of  the  land,  with- 
out reference  to  the  mere  prestige  cf  name,  or 
the  advantages  of  worldly  wisdom.  But  since 
the  efficiency  of  the  work  must  in  great  meas- 
ure depend  upon  its  definiteness,  The  Stylus 
will  limit  itself  to  Literature  Proper,  the  Fine 
Arts,  and  the  Drama." 

Notwithstanding  the  large  number  of  his 
admirers,  and  the  friendly  co-operation  of  Mr. 
Thomas  C.  Clark,  who  was  to  have  been  the 
publisher,  Poe  found  the  minimum  number  of 
subscribers  necessary  to  start  the  magazine 
very  difficult  to  obtain;  he  therefore  set  about 
his  lectures  for  the  purpose  of  getting  4<the 
means  of  taking  the  first  step." 

The  first  lecture  of  the  series  was  given  in 
the  library  of  the  New  York  Historical  Soci- 
ety; it  was  upon  the  cosmogony  of  the 
universe,  and  formed  the  substance  of  the 
work  he  afterwards  published  as  "Eureka,  a 
Prose  Poem."  Mr.  M.  B.  Field,  who  was 
present,  says — "It  was  a  stormy  night,  and 
there  were  not  more  than  sixty  persons  pres- 
ent in  the  lecture-room.  .  .  .  His  lecture  was 
a  rhapsody  of  the  most  intense  brilliancy.  He 
appeared  inspired,  and  his  inspiration  affected 
the  scant  audience  almost  painfully.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  glow  like  those  of  his  own  4  Raven/ 


MEMOIR.  79 

and  he  kept  us  entranced  for  two  hours  and  a 
half."  Such  small  audiences,  despite  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  lecturer,  or  the  lectured,  could 
not  give  much  material  aid  towards  the  poet's 
purpose.  Poor  and  baffled  he  had  to  return  to 
his  lonely  home  at  Fordham,  to  contemplate 
anew  the  problems  of  creation ;  or  to  discuss 
with  stray  visitors,  with  an  intensity  of  feel- 
ing and  steadfastness  of  belief  never  surpassed, 
his  unriddling  of  the  secret  of  the  universe. 

In  the  early  summer  of  1848  we  find  Poe 
delivering  a  lecture  at  Lowell  on  the  "  Female 
Poets  of  America."  "In  an  analysis  of  the 
comparative  merits  of  the  New  England  poet- 
esses," says  the  Hon.  James  Atkinson,  who 
attended  the  lecture,  "the  lecturer  awarded 
to  Mrs.  Osgood  the  palm  of  facility,  ingenuity, 
and  grace ; — to  Mrs.  Whitman,  a  pre-eminence 
in  refinement  of  art,  enthusiasm,  imagination, 
and  genius,  properly  so  called ; — to  Miss  Lynch 
he  ascribed  an  unequaled  success  in  the  con- 
centrated and  forcible  enunciation  of  the  senti- 
ment of  heroism  and  duty."  Mrs.  Whitman, 
undoubtedly  the  finest  female  poet  New  Eng- 
land has  produced,  had  been  first  seen  by  Poe, 
says  Griswold,  "on  his  way  from  Boston,  when 
he  visited  that  city  to  deliver  a  poem  before 
the  Lyceum  there.  Restless  near  midnight,  he 
wandered  from  his  hotel  near  where  she  lived, 
until  he  saw  her  walking  in  a  garden.  He 
related  the  incident  afterwards  in  one  of  his 
most  exquisite  poems,  worthy  of  himself,  of 
her,  and  of  the  most  exalted  passion." 

"Meanwhile,  the    beautiful    young    widow 


80  MEMOIR. 

lived  on  perfectly  unconscious  of  the  fierce 
flame  she  had  aroused  in  the  poet's  heart, 
until,  in  the  beginning  of  the  summer  of  1848, 
about  the  time  of  the  above  lecture,  the  first 
intimation  reached  her  in  the  shape  of  the 
beautiful  lines,  'To  Helen/  alluded  to  by  Gris- 
wold,  commencing,  'I  saw  thee  once — once 
only — years  ago. '  There  was  no  signature  to 
the  poem,  but  the  lady  was  acquainted  with 
Edgar  Poe's  exquisite  handwriting,  and  there- 
fore knew  whence  it  came.  About  this  time 
the  poet  went  to  Richmond,  Virginia,  and 
forming  the  acquaintance  of  the  late  Mr. 
James  Thompson,  the  talented  editorial  pro- 
prietor of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
agreed  to  become  a  contributor  to  its  pages. 
Mr.  Thompson,  like  all  who  knew  Poe  person- 
ally, became  strongly  attached  to  him,  and 
has  left  some  interesting  reminiscences  of  him. 
The  poet  at  this  period  was  making  many  in- 
quiries about  Mrs.  Whitman,  and  speaking 
both  publicly  and  privately  in  high  praise  of 
her  poetry,  so  that  at  last,  even  before  they 
met,  their  names  were,  as  Griswold  truthfully 
states,  frequently  associated  together.  One 
day,  says  Mr.  Thompson,  Poe  rushed  into  the 
office  of  the  Messenger  in  a  state  of  great  ex- 
citement, sat  down  and  wrote  out  a  challenge 
to  Mr.  Daniels,  editor  of  the  Richmond  Exam- 
iner, and  requested  Mr.  Thompson  to  be  its 
bearer  to  the  person  challenged !  In  explana- 
tion of  his  conduct,  he  handed  his  friend  a 
paragraph  cut  from  the  Examiner,  giving  an 
account  of  Poe's  presumed  engagement  to 


MEMOIR.  si 

Mrs.  Whitman,  and  making1  some  comments 
on  the  lady's  temerity.  The  enraged  poet 
said  he  did  not  care  what  Daniels  might  say 
about  him,  but  that  he  would  net  have  the 
lady's  name  dragged  in.  Mr.  Thompson  re- 
fused to  deliver  the  challenge,  and  Poe  went 
personally  to  see  Daniels,  and  the  result  was 
that  the  offending  paragraph  was  withdrawn. 
In  September  of  this  year,  Poe,  having  ob- 
tained a  letter  of  introduction  from  a  lady 
friend,  sought  and  obtained  an  interview  with 
Mrs.  Whitman.  The  result  of  this  and  several 
subsequent  interviews,  was  the  betrothal  of  the 
two  poets,  notwithstanding  the  most  strenu- 
ous opposition  of  the  lady's  family.  Much  as 
she  revered  his  genius,  the  opposition  of  her 
relatives  to  the  match  appears  for  a  time  to 
have  caused  the  lady  to  withstand  the  poet's 
passionate  appeals,  but  ultimately,  as  stated, 
they  were  engaged.  The  following  para- 
graphs, from  a  letter  written  by  Poe  on  the  i8th 
of  October  of  this  year,  show  how  intensely  he 
could  feel,  and  how  earnestly  he  could  express 
his  feelings  as  well  in  private  correspondence 
as  in  those  compositions  intended  for  the 
public  eye : — 

"— — You  do  not  love  me,  or  you  would 
have  felt  too  thorough  a  sympathy  with  the 
sensitiveness  of  my  nature,  to  have  wounded 
me  as  you  have  done  with  this  terrible  passage 
of  your  letter — 'How  often  I  have  heard  it 
said  of  you,  "He  has  great  intellectual  power, 
but  no  principle — no  moral  sense." 

44  Is    it    possible  that  such    expressions    as 


82  MEMOIR. 

these  could  have  been  repeated  to  me — to  me 
— by  one  whom  I  loved — ah,  whom  I  love !  .  . 

44  By  the  God  who  reigns  in  Heaven,  I  swear 
to  you  that  my  soul  is  incapable  of  dishonor — 
that,  with  the  exception  of  occasional  follies 
and  excesses,  which  I  bitterly  lament,  but  to 
which  I  have  been  driven  by  intolerable  sor- 
row, and  which  are  hourly  committed  by 
others  without  attracting  any  notice  whatever 
— I  can  call  to  mind  no  act  of  my  life  which 
would  bring  a  blush  to  my  cheek — or  to  yours. 
If  I  have  erred  at  all,  in  this  regard,  it  has 
been  on  the  side  of  what  the  world  would  call 
a  Quixotic  sense  of  the  honorable — of  the  chiv- 
alrous. The  indulgence  of  this  sense  has  been 
the  true  voluptuousness  of  my  life.  It  was  for 
this  species  of  luxury  that  in  early  youth  I  de- 
liberately threw  away  from  me  a  large  fortune 
rather  than  endure  a  trivial  wrong. 

44  For  nearly  three  years  I  have  been  ill, 
poor,  living  out  of  the  world;  and  thus,  as  I 
now  painfully  see,  have  afforded  opportunity 
to  my  enemies  to  slander  me  in  private  society 
without  my  knowledge,  and  thus,  with  im- 

F  unity.  Althoughmuch,  however,  may  (and, 
now  see,  must)  have  been  said  to  my  dis- 
credit during  my  retirement,  those  few  who, 
knowing  me  well,  have  been  steadfastly  my 
friends,  permitted  nothing  to  reach  my  ears — 
unless  in  one  instance,  of  such  a  character  that 
I  could  appeal  to  a  court  of  justice  for  redress.* 
...  I  replied  to  the  charge  fully  in  a  public 

•The  Dunn-English  libeL    (See,  ante,  p.  62.)— Ed. 


MEMOIR.  83 

newspaper— afterwards  suing  the  Mirror,  (in 
which  the  scandal  appeared, ) obtaining  a  verdict 
and  receiving  such  an  amount  of  damages  as 
for  the  time  to  completely  break  up  that  jour- 
nal. And  do  you  ask  why  men  so  misjudge 
me — why  I  have  enemies?  If  your  knowledge 
of  my  character  and  of  my  career  does  not 
afford  you  an  answer  to  the  query,  at  least  it 
does  not  become  me  to  suggest  the  answer. 
Let  it  suffice  that  I  have  had  the  audacity  to 
remain  poor,  that  I  might  preserve  my  inde- 
pendence— that,  nevertheless,  in  letters,  to  a 
certain  extent,  and  in  certain  regards,  I  have' 
been  'successful,' — that  I  have  been  a  critic — 
an  unscrupulously  honest,  and,  no  doubt,  in 
many  cases,  a  bitter  one — that  I  have  uni- 
formly attacked — where  I  attacked  at  all — 
those  who  stood  highest  in  power  and  influ- 
ence; and  that,  whether  in  literature  or  soci- 
ety, I  have  seldom  refrained  from  expressing, 
either  directly  or  indirectly,  the  pure  contempt 
with  which  the  pretensions  of  ignorance,  arro- 
gance, or  imbecility  inspire  me.  And  you 
who  know  all  this,  you  ask  me  why  I  have 
enemies.  .  .  .  Forgive  me  if  there  be  bitter- 
ness in  my  tone."  .  .  . 

The  man  who  could  write  thus,  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  feel,  must  have  been  sincere ;  must 
have  been  incapable  of  committing  the  mean, 
the  dishonoring  actions,  placed  by  an  envi- 
ous and  jealous  writer  to  his  charge. 

In  a  letter  addressed  to  the  same  dear  friend, 
and  dated  the  24th  of  November,  1848,  Poe 
exhibits  his  pistolary  powers  in  quite  a  differ- 


84  MEMOIR. 

ent  light.     After  certain  matters  of  a  private 
nature,  he  remarks : 

"Your  lines  'To  Arcturus'  are  truly  beautiful.  I 
would  retain  the  Virgilian  words,  omitting  the  transla- 
tion. The  first  note  leave  out.  61  Cygni  has  been 
proved  nearer  than  Arcturus,  and  Alpha  Lyrse  is  pre- 
sumably so.  Bessel  also  has  shown  six  other  stars  to  be 
nearer  than  the  brighter  ones  of  this  hemisphere. 
There  is  an  obvious  tautology  in  'pale  candescent.'  To 
be  candescent  is  to  become  white  with  heat.  Why  not 
read — 'To  blend  with  thine  its  incandescent  fire?'  For- 
give me,  sweet  Helen,  for  these  very  stupid  and  cap- 
tious criticisms.  Take  vengeance  on  my  next  poem. 
When  'Ulalume'  appears,  cut  it  out  and  enclose  it — 
newspapers  seldom  reach  me.  In  last  Saturday's  Home 
Journal  is  a  letter  from  M.  C.  (who  is  it?)  I  enclose  a 
passage  which  seems  to  refer  to  my  lines — 

' — the  very  roses'  odors, 
Died  in  the  arms  of  the  adoring  airs. ' 
The  accusation  will  enable   you   to  see  how  ground- 
less such  accusations  may  be,  even  when  seemingly  best 
founded.      Mrs.  H's  book  was  published  three  months 
ago.    You  had  my  poem  about  the  ist  of  June — was  it 
not? — Forever  your  own.  "EDGAR. 

"Remember  me  to  Mr.  Pabodie." 

The  Mr.  Pabodie  referred  to  was  a  great 
friend  of  Poe's,  and  as  it  will  be  necessary  to 
speak  of  him  again,  to  show  the  terms  upon 
which  the  two  lived,  the  following  otherwise 
unimportant  letter  is  quoted : 

"FORDHAM,  December,  '48. 

"My  Dear  Mr.  Pabodie— On  the  principal  of  'better 
late  than  never,'  I  seize  the  first  opportunity  afforded 
me,  in  the  midst  of  cares  and  vexations  of  all  kinds,  to 
write  you  a  few  words  of  cordial  thanks  for  your  consid- 
erate and  gentlemanly  attentions  to  me  while  in  Provi- 
dence. I  do  hope  that  you  will  always  think  of  me  as 
one  of  the  most  obliged  and  most  devoted  of  your 


MEMOIR.  85 

friends.  Please  say  to  Mrs.  W.,  when  you  next  see  her, 
that  I  thank  her  for  the 'papers,' and  for  her  prompt- 
itude. Say,  also,  that  perhaps  Mrs.  Wright  is  right,  but 
that  I  believe  her  wrong,  and  desire  to  be  kindly  re- 
membered. The  commands  about  post  have  been  at- 
tended to.  Present  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Allan  and  to 
your  father. — Truly  yours  always. 

"EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 
"W.  J.  PABODIE,  ESQ." 

In  the  very  month  this  letter  was  written 
Poe's  engagement  with  Mrs.  Whitman  came 
to  an  end.  The  real  cause  of  the  rupture  be- 
tween the  poet  and  his  betrothed  has  never 
been  published,  although  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that,  for  the  sake  of  the  much  slandered  dead, 
the  seal  of  silence  will  some  day  be  broken. 
It  is  impossible  to  impute  blame  to  either  of 
the  parties  concerned,  as  undoubtedly  the  true 
cause  of  the  separation  arose  from  circum- 
stances beyond  their  control.  According  to  the 
diabolical  story  told  by  Griswold,  and  since  re- 
peated in  nearly  every  memoir  of  the  poet,  on 
the  evening  before  what  should  have  been 
the  bridal  morn,  Poe  committed  such  druaken 
outrages  at  the  house  of  his  affianced  bride  that 
it  was  fo\ind  necessary  to  summon  the  police 
to  eject  him,  which  of  course  ended  the  en- 
gagement. This  misstatement  being  brought 
under  the  notice  of  the  parties  concerned,  Mr. 
Pabodie  wrote  a  direct  and  specific  denial  of  it 
to  the  New  York  Tribune,  and  it  appeared  in 
that  paper  on  the  ;th  of  June,  1852.  "I  am 
authorized  to  say,*' remarks  Mr.  Pabodie,  who, 
it  should  be  mentioned,  was  an  eminent  law- 
yer as  well  as  a  man  of  considerable  literary 


86  MEMOIR. 

ability,  *'I  am  authorized  to  say,  not  only  from 
my  personal  knowledge,  but  also  from  the 
statement  of  all  who  were  conversant  with  the 
affair,  that  there  exists  not  a  shadow  of  foun- 
dation for  the  story  above  alluded  to."  The 
same  letter  goes  on  to  state  that  its  writer 
knew  Poe  well,  and  at  the  time  alluded  to  was 
with  him  daily.  "I  was  acquainted  with  the 
circumstances  of  his  engagement,  and  with 
the  causes  which  led  to  its  dissolution."  con- 
tinues Mr.  Pabodie ;  and  he  concludes  his  let- 
ter with  an  earnest  appeal  to  Griswold  to  do 
all  that  now  lies  in  his  power  "to  remove  an 
undeserved  stigma  from  the  memory  of  the 
departed."  An  honorable  man  would  have 
acknowledged  the  incorrectness  of  his  informa- 
tion, and  have  done  his  best  to  obviate  the 
consequences  of  his  accusation.  Not  so  this 
biographer ;  he  wrote  a  savage  letter  to  Mr. 
Pabodie,  threatening  terrible  things  if  he  did 
not  withdraw  his  statement.  Mr.  Pabodie  did 
not  withdraw,  but,  in  another  letter  to  Gris- 
wold, brought  forward  incontrovertible  proofs 
of  other  falsifications  indulged  in  by  the  author 
of  the  "Memoir,"  who  henceforward  remained 
discreetly  silent. 

During  the  larger  portion  of  1848,  Poe  con- 
tinued his  studies,  which  at  this  period  were 
chiefly  philosophical,  at  his  home  at  Fordham. 
Beyond  a  few  reviews,  he  would  appear  to 
have  given  his  whole  time  to  the  completion 
of  "Eureka,"  the  last  and  grandest  monument 
of  his  genius.  The  merits  of  this  wonderful 
"prose  poem"  this  is  neither  the  time  nor  the 


MEMOIR.  87 

place  to  discuss;  and  it  suffices  now  to  point 
out  that  in  all  probability  no  other  author  ever 
flung  such  an  intensity  of  feeling,  or  ever  be- 
lieved more  steadfastly  in  the  truth  of  his 
work,  than  did  Edgar  Pote  in  this  attempted 
unriddling  of  the  secret  of  the  universe.  He 
was  wont  to  discuss  the  various  knotty  points 
of  *'  Eureka"  with  a  startling  eloquence  that 
electrified  his  hearers  into  belief.  He  could 
not  submit  to  hear  the  claims  of  his  work  dis- 
cussed by  unsympathetic  and  incompetent 
critics,  and  after  it  was  published  in  book  form, 
and  thus  made  general  property,  he  addressed 
this  thoroughly  characteristic  letter  to  Mr.  C. 
F.  Hoffman,  then  editor  of  the  Literary  World, 
anent  a  flippant  critique  of  **  Eureka"  which 
had  appeared  in  the  columns  of  that  publica- 
tion. 

"DEAR  SIR — In  your  paper  of  July  29,  I  find  some 
comments  on  'Eureka,'  a  late  book  of  my  own,  and  I 
know  you  too  well  to  suppose  for  a  moment  that  you 
will  refuse  me  the  privilege  of  a  few  words  in  reply.  I 
feel  even  that  I  might  safely  claim  from  Mr.  Hoffman 
the  right  which  every  author  has,  of  replying  to  his 
critic  tone  for  tone, — that  is  to  say,  of  answering  your 
correspondent's  flippancy  by  flippancy,  and  sneer  by 
sneer,  — but,  in  the  first  place,  I  do  not  wish  to  disturb 
the  'World,'  and  in  the  second,  I  feel  that  I  should  never 
be  done  sneering  in  the  present  instance  were  I.  once  to 
begin.  L/amartine  blames  Voltaire  for  the  use  which 
he  made  of  misrepresentations  (ruses)  in  his  attacks  on 
the  priesthood ;  but  our  young  students  of  theology  do 
not  seem  to  be  aware  that  in  defense,  or  what  they  fancy 
to  be  defense,  of  Christianity,  there  is  anything  wrong  in 
such  gentlemanly  peccadilloes  as  the  deliberate  perver- 
sion of  an  author's  text — to  say  nothing  of  the  minor 
indecora  of  reviewing  a  book  without  it,  and  without 
having  the  faintest  suspicion  of  what  it  is  about 


88  MEMOIR. 

"  You  will  understand  that  it  is  merely  the  misrepre- 
sentations of  the  critique  in  question  fx>  which  I  claim 
the  privilege  of  reply;  the  mere  opinions  of  the  writer 
can  be  of  no  consequence  to  me — and  1  should  imagine 
of  very  little  to  himself  —that  is  to  say,  if  he  knows 
himself  personally  as  well  as  I  have  the  honor  of  know- 
ing him.  The  first  misrepresentation  is  contained  in 
this  sentence: — This  letter  is  a  keen  burlesque  on  the 
Aristotelian  or  Baconian  method  of  ascertaining  Truth, 
both  of  which  the  writer  ridicules  and  despises,  and 
pours  forth  his  rhapsodical  ecstasies  in  a  glorification  of 
a  third  mode — the  noble  art  of  guessing.'  What  I 
really  say  is  this: — 'That  there  is  no  absolute  certainty 
either  in  the  Aristotelian  or  Baconian  process ;  that  for 
this  reason  nefther  philosophy  is  so  profound  as  it  fan- 
cies itself,  and  that  neither  has  a  right  to  sneer  at  that 


inductions  or  deductions,  of  which  the  processes  are  so 
shadowy  as  to  escape  our  consciousness,  elude  our 
reason,  or  defy  our  capacity  of  expression. '  The  second 
misrepresentation  runs  thus: — 'The  developments  of 
electricity  and  the  formation  of  stars  and  suns,  lumi- 
nous and  non -luminous,  moons  and  planets,  with  their 
rings,  etc.,  is  deduced,  very  much  according  to  the 
nebular  theory  of  Laplace,  from  the  principle  pro- 
pounded above.'  Now,  the  impression  intended  to  be 
made  here  upon  the  reader's  mind  by  the  '  Student  of 
Theology*  is,  evidently,  that  my  theory  may  be  all  very 
well  in  its  way,  but  that  it  is  nothing  but  Laplace  over 
again  with  some  modifications  that  he  (the  Student  of 
Theology)  cannot  regard  as  at  all  important  I  have 
only  to  say  that  no  gentleman  can  accuse  me  of  the  dis- 
ingenuousness  here  implied;  inasmuch  as,  having  pro- 
ceeded with  my  theory  to  that  point  at  which  Laplace's 
theory  meets  it  I  then  give  Laplace's  theory  in  full, 
with  the  expression  of  my  firm  conviction  of  its  absolute 
truth  at  all  points.  The  ground  covered  by  the  great 
French  astronomer  compares  with  that  covered  by  my 
theory,  as  a  bubble  compares  with  the  ocean  on  which  it 
floats;  nor  has  he  the  slightest  allusion  to  'the  principle 
propounded  above,'  the  principle  of  Unity  bem»r  the 


MEMOIR.  89 

source  of  all  things — the  principle  of  Gravity  being 
merely  the  Reaction  of  the  Divine  Act  which  irradiated 
all  things  from  Unity.  In  fact,  no  point  of  my  theory 
has  been  even  so  much  as  alluded  to  by  Laplace.  1 
have  not  considered  it  necessary  here  to  speak  of  the 
astronomical  knowledge  displayed  in  the  'stars  and 
suns'  of  the  Student  of  Theology,  nor  to  hint  that  it 
would  be  better  grammar  to  say  that  'development  and 
formation*  are,  than  that  development  and  formation  is. 
The  third  misrepresentation  lies  in  a  foot-note,  where 
the  critic  says: — "Further  than  this,  Mr.  Pbe's  claim 
that  he  can  account  for  the  existence  of  all  organized 
beings — man  included — merely  from  those  principles 
on  which  the  origin  and  present  appearance  of  suns  and 
worlds  are  explained,  must  be  set  down  as  mere  bold 
assertion,  without  a  particle  of  evidence.  In  others 
words,  we  should  term  it  arrant  fudge. '  The  perversion 
of  this  point  is  involved  in  a  willful  misapplication  of 
the  word  'principles.'  I  say 'willful'  because  at  page  63 
I  am  particularly  carefully  to  distinguish  between  the 
principles  proper — Attraction  and  Repulsion — and  those 
merely  resultant  suborinciples  which  control  the  uni- 
verse in  detail.  To  these  sub-principles,  swayed  by  the 
immediate  spiritual  influence  of  Deity,  I  leave,  without 
examination,  all  that  which  the  Student  of  Theology  so 
roundly  asserts  I  account  for  on  the  principles  which 
account  for  the  constitution  of  suns,  etc 

"Were  these  'misrepresentations'  (is  that  the  name 
for  them?)  made  for  any  less  serious  a  purpose  than 
that  of  branding  my  book  as  'impious,'  and  myself  as  a 
'pantheist,'  a  'polytheist,'  a  Pagan,  or  a  God  knows 
what  (and,  indeed,  I  care  very  little,  so  it  be  not  a  Stu- 
dent of  Theology'),  I  would  have  permitted  their  dis- 
honesty to  pass  unnoticed,  through  pure  contempt  for 
the  boyishness,  for  the  turn-down-shirt-collarness  of 
their  tone ;  but,  as  it  is,  you  will  pardon  me,  Mr.  Editor, 
that  I  have  been  compelled  to  expose  a  'critic*  who, 
courageously  perserving  his  own  anonymousity,  takes 
advantage  of  my  absence  from  the  city  to  misrepresent, 
and  thus  vilify  me,  by  nan 

"EDGAR  A.  POE. 

"FoiDHAM,  September  20,  1848." 


90  MEMOIR. 

During  the  last  year  of  his  life  Poe  saw 
much  of  Mrs.  Estelle  Lewis,  already  alluded  to 
as  "Stella,*"  and  he  and  his  aunt  both  received 
much  kindness  from  that  accomplished  woman. 
His  exalted  critique  on  her  writings  origin- 
ally appealed  in  the  Messenger,  in  1848,  and 
in  the  same  year  he  published  the  poem  to  her 
entitled  "An  Enigma,"  but  through  an  unfor- 
tunate mistake  he  mistook  her  Christian  name, 
and  wrought  into  his  lines  "Sarah**  instead  of 
"Estelle."  Lying  before  us,  in  his  beautiful 
caligraphy,  is  this  little  note  announcing  its 
production : — 

"27th  November,  1848. 

"DEAR  MRS.  LEWIS— A  thousand  thanks  for  your  re- 
peated kindness,  and  above  all  for  the  comforting  and 
cheering  wortls  of  your  note.  Your  advice  I  feel  as  a 
command  which  neither  my  heart  nor  my  reason  would 
venture  to  disobey.  May  heaven  for  ever  bless  you  and 
yours! 

"A  day  or  two  ago  I  sent  to  one  of  the  magazines  the' 
soi.  net  enclosed.  Its  tone  is  somewhat  too  light,  but  it 
embodies  a  riddle  which  I  put  you  to  the  trouble  of  ex- 
pounding. Will  you  try?  Your  always, 

"EDGAR  A.  POE." 

The  winter  of  1848-49,  and  the  spring  of  the 
latter  year,  Poe  passed  at  Fordham,  and  during 
this  time  he  is  alleged  to  have  written  a  book 
entitled  Phases  of  American  Literature; 
Mr.  M.  A.  Daly  states  that  he  saw  the  complete 
work,  but  the  manuscript  would  seem  to  have 
disappeared.  After  Poe's  death  the  larger  por- 
tion of  his  papers  passed  through  Griswold's 
hands,  and  his  manipulation  of  them  will, 
doubtless,  account  for  all  deficiencies  and 


MEMOIR,  91 

shortcomings.  In  the  summer,  Poe  revisited 
Richmond,  and  spent  between  two  and  three 
months  there,  during  which  time  he  delivered 
two  lectures,  in  the  Exchange  Concert-Room, 
on  "The  Poetic  Principle." 

"When  in  Richmond,"  says  Mr.  Thompson, 
"he  made  the  office  of  the  Messenger  a  place 
of  frequent  resort.  His  conversation  was 
always  attractive,  and  at  times  very  brilliant. 
Among  modern  authors  his  favorite  was 
Tennyson,  and  he  delighted  to  recite  from 
'The  Princess,' the  song,  'Tears,  idle  Tears' 
— and  a  fragment  of  which — 

"  'When  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square,'  "^ 

he  pronounced  unsurpassed  by  any  image 
expressed  in  writing."  For  Mr.  Thompson, 
whom  he  inspired  with  an  affection  similar  to 
that  with  which  he  inspired  all  with  whom  he 
had  personal  dealings,  he  wrote  a  quantity  of 
his  sparkling  and  vivid  "Marginalia,"  as  well 
as  reviews  of  "Stella"  (Mrs.  Lewis)  and  of 
Mrs.  Osgood.  To  his  probity  and  general 
worth,  Mr.  Thompson,  who  undoubtedly  saw 
more  of  him  in  his  latter  days  than  any  person 
not  a  relative,  bears  affectionate  testimony. 
Writing  to  Mr.  James  Wood  Davidson,  in  1853, 
he  remarks: — "Two  years  ago  I  had  a  long 
conversation  in  Florence  with  Robert  and 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  concerning  Poe. 
The  two  poets,  like  yourself,  had  formed  an 
ardent  and  just  admiration  of  the  author  of 
'The  Raven,'  and  feel  a  strong  desire  to  see 


92  MEMOIR. 

his  memory  vindicated  from  moral  aspersion." 
Unfortunately  the  vindication  has  been  slower 
than  the  aspersion  to  make  its  way  in  the 
world. 

The  poet  had  not  been  long  in  Richmond  on 
this  occasion  of  his  final  visit  before  it  was 
rumored  that  he  was  engaged  to  the  love  of 
his  youth,  Mrs.  Shelton,  who  was  now  a 
widow.  He  never  alluded  in  any  way  to  such 
an  engagement  to  his  friend  Mr.  Thompson, 
intimate  as  he  was  with  him,  but  there  would 
appear  to  have  been  some  truth  in  the  report, 
and  on  the  news  of  Poe's  death  Mrs.  Shelton 
went  into  mourning  for  him.  On  the  4th  of 
October  he  left  Richmond  by  train,  with  the 
intention,  it  is  supposed,  of  going  to  Fordham 
to  fetch  Mrs.  Clemm  Before  his  departure  he 
complained  to  a  friend  of  indisposition,  of 
chilliness  and  exhaustion,  but,  notwithstand- 
ing, determined  to  undertake  the  journey. 
He  left  the  train  at  Baltimore,  and  some  hours 
later  was  discovered  in  the  street  insensible. 
How  he  had  been  taken  ill  no  one  really 
knows,  and  all  the  absurd  reports  circulated 
about  his  last  moments  were  absolute  inven- 
tions. He  was  dying  when  found,  and,  being 
unknown,  was  taken  at  once  to  the  Hospital, 
where  he  died  on  Sunday  the  yth  of  October, 
1849,  of  inflammation  of  the  "brain,  insensible, 
it  is  supposed,  to  the  last.  The  following  day 
he  was  buried  in  the  burial  ground  of  West- 
minster Church,  close  by  the  grave  of  his 
grandfather,  General  David  Poe.  No  stone 
marks  the  spot  where  he  lies. 


MEMOIR.  93 

In  telling  the  true  story  of  this  poet's  life  it 
is  impossible  to  utterly  ignore  the  fact — a  fact 
of  which  his  enemies  have  made  so  much — 
that  towards  the  close  of  his  melancholy  career, 
sorrow  and  chronic  pecuniary  embarrassment 
drove  him  to  the  use  of  stimulants,  as  afford- 
ing the  only  procurable  nepenthe  for  his 
troubles.  "A  less  delicate  organization  than 
his,"  remarks  one  of  his  acquaintances, 
"might  have  borne  without  injury  what  to 
him  was  maddening."  "I  have  absolutely  no 
pleasure  in  the  stimulants  in  which  I  some- 
times so  madly  indulge, "  he  wrote  some  months 
before  his  death  to  a  dear  friend  who  tried  to 
hold  forth  a  saving  hope.  "It  has  not  been  in 
the  pursuit  of  pleasure  that  I  have  periled  life 
and  reputation  and  reason.  It  has  been  in 
the  desperate  attempt  to  escape  from  tortur- 
ing memories —  memories  of  wrong  and  in- 
justice and  imputed  dishonor — from  a  sense  of 
insupportable  loneliness  and  a  dread  of  some 
strange  impending  doom."  There  is  no  ne- 
cessity for  us  to  touch  heavily  upon  this  terrible 
trait  in  the  character  of  Edgar  Poe — this  sad 
sickening  infirmity  of  his  "lonesome  latter 
years;"  his  error,  if  such  it  may  be  styled — 
the  impulse  which  blindly  impelled  him  to  his 
destruction — injured  no  one  but  himself;  and 
certainly,  no  one  before  or  since  has  suffered 
so  severely  in  character  in  consequence  of  it. 
Burns,  Goethe,  Byron,  and  other  children  of 
genius  have  erred  far  worse  than  Poe  ever  did, 
inasmuch  as  their  derelictions  injured  others, 
but  with  them  the  world  has  dealt  leniently, 


94  MEMOIR. 

accepting  their  genius  as  a  compensation. 
But  for  poor  Edgar  Poe,  who  wronged  no  one 
but  himself,  the  world,  misled  greatly  it  is 
true  as  to  his  real  character,  has  hitherto  had 
no  mercy.  But  the  true  story  of  his  life  has 
now  been  told ;  henceforth  let  him  be  judged 
justly ;  henceforth  let  his  few  errors  be  forgot- 
ten, and  to  his  name  be  assigned  that  place 
which  is  due  to  it  in  the  glory-roll  of  fame. 

The  history  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  can  scarcely 
be  said  to  have  ended  with  his  life.  Two  days 
after  his  death  a  cruel  deprecatory  notice  of  his 
life  and  works  appeared  in  the  New  York  Trib- 
une, and  this  notice,  which  was  signed  "Lud- 
wig,"  after  declaring  that  the  poet's  decease 
"will  startle  many,  but  few  will  be  grieved  by 
it,*'  as  4<he  had  few  or  no  friends,"  proceeds 
to  furnish  a  sketch  of  Poe's  life,  taken  pro- 
fessedly from  Gris wold's  "Poets  and  Poetry  of 
America."  Thanks  to  N.  P.  Willis,  it  trans- 
pired that  this  notice  was  by  Griswold  himself 
— he  was  the  pseudonymous  "Ludwig. "  The 
papers  were  immediately  flooded  with  disproofs 
of  this  characterization  of  Poe,  and  friend  after 
friend  came  forward  to  defend  the  dead  man 
against  his  assailant.  Willis  led  the  van  with 
his  well-known  and  already  alluded  to  paper, 
in  which  he  recorded  his  own  personal  knowl- 
edge of  Edgar  Poe,  derived  from  five  years' 
intimate  acquaintanceship.  Mr.  George  R. 
Graham,  the  originator  and  proprietor  of  the 
well-known  Graham's  Magazine,  next  pro- 
ceeded to  denounce,  in  what  Griswold  styles 
*'a  sophomorical  and  trashy,  but  widely  circu- 


MEMOIR.  95 

lated  letter,  the  notice  as  "an  immortal  in- 
famy," and  probably  knowing1  better  than  any 
one  else  the  position  which  his  rival  editors 
stood  in  with  respect  to  one  another,  declared 
it  to  be  the  "fancy  sketch  of  a  perverted  jaun- 
diced vision. "  John  Neal  also  came  forward 
to  assert  that  it  was  "false  and  malicious," 
and  its  author  a  "calumniator,"  between 
whom  and  Poe  existed  "a  long,  intense,  and 
implacable  enmity,"  that  utterly  disqualified 
Griswold  for  the  post  of  the  poet's  biographer. 
Undaunted  by  the  outcry  he  had  created,  Gris- 
wold proceeded  to  the  manufacture  of  that 
masterpiece  of  envy,  hatred,  and  malice, 
which,  under  the  title  of  a  "Memoir  of  Edgar 
Poe,"  he  attempted  to  foist  upon  the  world 
as  a  truthful  life  of  America's  greatest  and 
most  original  genius.  Doubted,  refuted,  and 
condemned,  as  it  has  been  in  America,  where 
Griswold's  own  disreputable  career  was  but 
too  notorious  to  be  ignored,  the  soi-disant 
"Memoir"  still  remains  even  there  the  only 
story  of  Poe's  life,  whilst  in  Europe  it  has  been 
unwittingly  and  almost  universally  accepted 
as  the  truth.  In  France,  indeed,  it  has  been 
attacked  by  Baudelaire,  who  pointed  out  its 
author's  evident  animosity  to  Poe;  and  in 
England,  Mr.  Moy  Thomas  drew  attention  to 
the  fact  that  portraitures  of  Poe,  less  repulsive 
than  that  given  by  Griswold,  were  in  exist- 
ence ;  as  a  rule,  however,  it  has  been  received 
as  a  faithful  story. 

In  the  preceding  "Memoir"  an  attempt  has 
been  made  for  the  first  time  to  do  justice  to  the 


96  MEMOIR. 

poet's  memory.  Many  of  the  dark  stains 
which  Griswold  cast  upon  it  have  been  re- 
moved, and  those  which  remain,  resting  as 
they  do  solely  upon  the  testimony  of  an  im- 
placable enemy,  may  safely  be  ignored  as,  in 
the  mild  words  of  Mrs.  Whitman,  "perverted 
facts  and  baseless  assumptions." 

It  does  not  come  within  the  scope  of  our 
present  purpose  to  investigate  the  peculiarities 
of  Poe's  genius,  or  to  analyze  the  varied  excel- 
lencies of  his  works.  There  are,  however, 
some  misconceptions,  with  regard  to  his  liter- 
ary labors  which,  founded  as  they  almost 
invariably  are  upon  Griswold's  authority,  we 
should  like  to  draw  attention  to.  Says  this 
biographer,  and  the  remark  has  been  fre- 
quently copied,  word  for  word,  "Poe  exhibits 
scarcely  any  virtue  in  either  his  life  or  his 
writings.  Probably  there  is  not  another  in- 
stance in  the  literature  of  our  language  in 
which  so  much  has  been  accomplished  without 
a  recognition  of  a  manifestation  of  con- 
science." As  regards  Poe's  life,  the  world 
can  now  judge  anew  whilst,  as  regards  his 
writings,  we  demand  in  what  works  of  fiction 
are  more  fully  recognized  and  more  vividly 
portrayed  the  unappeasable  tortures  and  the 
immutable  punishments  of  conscience,  than  in 
such  tales  as  "The  Man  of  the  Crowd,"  "The 
Tell-Tale  Heart,"  and  "William  Wilson"— 
the  very  personification  of  conscience  itself? 
Can  any  but  wilful  blindness  affect  to  ignore 
such  terrible  examples  of  a  high  and  unavoid- 
able retribution?  Who,  too,  having  read  Poe's 


MEMOIR.  97 

writings,  can  adopt  Gris wold's  dictum  that 
they  "never  display  reverence  or  remorse." 
No  one  ever  expressed  a  greater  "reverence" 
for  all  that  is  truly  great  and  noble  than  did 
Poe,  whilst,  as  for  "remorse,"  it  has  yet  to  be 
proved  that  that  was  needed  in  his  case.  With 
Griswold's  mere  opinion,  that  Poe  failed  in 
everything  he  attempted,  we  have  nothing  to 
do,  nor  does  it  concern  us  that  he  deemed  him 
"not  remarkably  original  in  invention;"  but 
when  he  proceeds  to  charge  him  with  whole- 
sale robbery,  and  avers  that  u  some  of  his  plag- 
iarisms are  scarcely  parallel  for  their 
audacity,"  silence  could  not  but  be  miscon- 
strued. Of  the  instances  which  the  biographer 
gives  of  the  alleged  literary  thefts  of  him 
whom  he  styles  "this  extraordinary  creature," 
we  have  already  examined  and  disproved  the 
two  chief,  the  "Conchology"  and  "The 
Haunted  Palace"  charges;  and  there  only 
remains  the  accusation  that  "the  complicate 
machinery  upon  which  the  interest  depends" 
of  "The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum"  is  borrowed 
from  a  story  entitled  "Vivenzio,"  which 
appeared  in  Blackwood's  Magazine.  This  tale 
was  published  in  August,  1830,  and  it  is  to  be 
wished  that  any  one  placing  the  slightest  reli- 
ance upon  Griswold's  credibility  will  compare 
the  two,  the  only  similarity  being  due  to  the 
fact  that  both  stories  derive  from  historical 
record  the  idea  of  a  collapsing  room.  Mr.  Mud- 
ford's  tale  of  "The  Iron  Shroud"  does  not  bear 
the  slightest  resemblance  in  plot  or  treatment 
to  Poe's. 

I  Foe's  Poems. 


98  MEMOIR. 

To  support  a  general  charge  of  inconsistency 
in  Poe's  criticisms,  the  implacable  biographer 
adduces  two  instances ;  the  first,  referring  to 
Mr.  Laughtoh  Osborn,  has  already  been  re- 
futed in  our  account  of  Poe's  connection  with 
the  Literary  Messenger,  and  the  second,  relat- 
ing to  Mr.  William  A.  Jones,  it  is  quite  as  easy 
to  disprove.  In  this  latter  instance,  Griswold 
gives  a  short  extract  from  a  paper  on  *'  Critics 
and  Criticism,"  in  which  Poe  awards  a  few 
words  ot  lukewarm  praise  to  Mr.  Jones,  and 
in  opposition  to  this  he  then  quotes  a  few 
garbled  sentences  from  the  Broadway  Journal, 
in  which  the  same  writer  is  condemned  in  no 
very  measured  terms.  The  story  is  too  long 
and  too  uninteresting  for  recapitulation,  but 
those  who  are  sufficiently  curious  to  learn  the 
whole  truth  can  find  it  in  full  at  pages  168 
and  183  of  the  second  volume  of  the  above 
journal:  it  suffices  to  say  that  Poe's  published 
opinion  of  Mr.  Jones  was  consistently  alike 
upon  the  two  occasions  referred  to.  But  it  is 
as  unnecessary  as  it  is  distasteful  to  pursue  this 
subject  further ;  we  have  said  enough  to  prove 
the  unreliability  of  Griswold's  "Memoir  of 
Edgar  Poe,"  and  in  conclusion  will  content 
ourselves  with  reproducing  Mr.  Graham's  in- 
teresting and  oft  referred  to  letter,  as  the  val- 
uable and  unbiased  evidence  of  an  unimpeach- 
able witness,  the  employer  of  both  Poe  and 
Griswold.  It  appears  in  Graham's  Magazine 
for  March,  1850. 

"Mv  DEAR  WILLIS: — In  an  article  of  yours, 
which  accompanies  the  two  beautiful  volumes 


MEMOIR.  '99 

of  the  writings  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  you  have 
spoken  with  so  much  truth  and  delicacy  of  the 
deceased,  and  with  the  magical  touch  of  genius 
have  called  so  warmly  up  before  me  the  mem- 
ory of  our  lost  friend,  as  you  and  I  both  seem 
to  have  known  him,  that  I  feel  warranted  in 
addressing  to  you  the  few  plain  words  I  have 
to  say  in  defense  of  his  character  as  set  down 
by  Mr.  Griswold.  Although  the  article,  it 
seems,  appeared  originally  in  the  New  York 
Tribune,  it  met  my  eye  for  the  first  time  in  the 
volumes  before  me.  I  now  purpose  to  take 
exception  to  it  in  the  most  public  manner.  I 
knew  Mr.  Poe  well — far  better  than  Mr.  Gris- 
wold ;  and  by  the  memory  of  old  times,  when 
he  was  an  editor  of  4Graham,'  I  pronounce 
this  exceedingly  ill-timed  and  unappreciative 
estimate  of  the  character  of  our  lost  friend 
unfair  and  untrue.  It  is  Mr.  Poe,  as  seen  by 
the  writer  while  laboring  under  a  fit  of  the 
nightmare;  but  so  dark  a  picture  has  no  re- 
semblance to  the  living  man.  Accompanying 
these  beautiful  volumes,  it  is  an  immortal — 
the  death's  head  over  the  entrance  to  the  gar- 
den of  beauty — a  horror  that  clings  to  the 
brow  of  morning,  whispering  of  murder.  It 
haunts  the  memory  through  every  page  of  his 
writings,  leaving  upon  the  heart  a  sensation 
of  utter  gloom,  a  feeling  almost  of  terror. 
The  only  relief  we  feel  is  in  knowing  that  it  is 
not  true — that  it  is  a  fancy  sketch  of  a  per- 
verted, jaundiced  vision.  The  man  who  could 
deliberately  say  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  in  a 
notice  of  his  life  and  writings,  prefacing  the 


100  MEMOIR. 

volumes  which  were  to  become  a  priceless 
souvenir  to  all  who  loved  him — that  his  death 
might  startle  many,  'but  that  few  would  be 
grieved  by  it* — and  blast  the  whole  fame  of 
the  man  by  such  a  paragraph  as  follows,  is  a 
judge  dishonored.  He  is  not  Mr.  Poe's  peer, 
and  I  challenge  him  before  the  country,  even 
as  a  juror  in  the  case. 

"  'His  harsh  experience  had  deprived  him  of  all  faith 
in  man  or  woman.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  upon  the 
numberless  complexities  of  the  social  world,  and  the 
whole  system  with  him  was  an  imposture.  This  con- 
viction gave  a  direction  to  his  shrewd  and  naturally 
unamiable  character.  Still,  though  he  regarded  society 
as  composed  altogether  of  villains,  the  sharpness  of  his 
intellect  was  not  of  that  kind  which  enabled  him  to  cope 
with  villainy  while  it  continually  caused  him  by  over- 
shots  to  fail  of  the  success  of  honesty.  He  was  in  many 
respects  like  Francis  Vivian  in  Bulwer's  novel  of  "The 
Caxtons."  Passion,  in  him,  comprehended  many  of  the 
worst  emotions  which  militate  against  human  happi- 
ness. You  could  not  contradict  him,  but  you  raised 
quick  choler ;  you  could  not  speak  of  wealth,  but  his 
cheek  paled  with  gnawing  envy.  The  astonishing  nat- 
ural advantages  of  this  poor  boy — his  beauty,  his  read- 
iness, the  daring  spirit  that  breathed  around  him  like  a 
fiery  atmosphere — had  raised  his  constitutional  self-con- 
fidence into  an  arrogance  that  turned  his  very  claims  to 
admiration  into  prejudices  against  him.  Irascible, 
envious — bad  enough,  but  not  the  worst,  for  these  salient 
angles  were  all  varnished  over  with  a  cold  repellant 
cynicism,  his  passions  vented  themselves  in  sneers. 
There  seemed  to  him  no  more  susceptibility ;  and  what 
was  more  remarkable  in  a  proud  nature,  little  or  nothing 
of  the  true  point  of  honor.  He  had,  to  a  morbid  excess, 
that  desire  to  rise  which  is  vulgarly  called  ambition,  but 
no  wish  for  the  esteem  or  the  love  of  the  species ;  only 
the  hard  wish  to  succeed — not  shine,  nor  serve — suc- 
ceed, that  he  might  have  the  right  to  despise  a  world 
which  galled  his  self-conceit. ' 


MEMOIR.  101 

"Now,  this  is  dastardly,  and  what  is  worse, 
it  is  false.  It  is  very  adroitly  done,  with 
phrases  very  well  turned,  and  with  gleams  of 
truth  shining  out  from  a  setting  so  dusky  as 
to  look  devilish.  Mr.  Griswold  does  not  feel 
the  worth  of  the  man  he  has  undervalued — he 
had  no  sympathies  in  common  with  him,  and 
has  allowed  old  prejudices  and  old  enmities  to 
steal,  insensibly  perhaps,  into  the  coloring  of 
his  picture.  They  were  for  years  totally  un- 
congenial, if  not  enemies,  and  during  that 
period  Mr.  Poe,  in  a  scathing  lecture  upon 
'The  Poets  of  America/  gave  Mr.  Griswold 
some  raps  over  the  knuckles  of  force  sufficient 
to  be  remembered.  He  had,  too,  in  the  exer- 
cise of  his  functions  as  critic,  put  to  death 
summarily  the  literary  reputation  of  some  of 
Mr.  Griswold's  best  friends;  and  their  ghosts 
cried  in  vain  for  him  to  avenge  them  during 
Poe's  lifetime — and  it  almost  seems  as  if  the 
present  hacking  at  the  cold  remains  of  him 
who  struck  them  down  is  a  sort  of  compensa- 
tion for  duty  long  delayed — for  reprisal  long 
desired  but  deferred.  '  But  without  this — the 
opportunities  afforded  Mr.  Griswold  to  esti- 
mate the  character  of  Poe  occurred,  in  the 
main,  after  his  stability  had  been  wrecked,  his 
whole  nature  in  a  degree  changed,  and  with 
all  his  prejudices  aroused  and  active.  Nor  do 
I  consider  Mr.  Griswold  competent — with  all 
the  opportunities  he  may  have  cultivated  or 
acquired — to  act  as  his  judge — to  dissect  that 
subtle  and  singularly  fine  intellect — to  probe 
the  motives  and  weigh  the  actions  of  that 


102  MEMOIR. 

proud  heart.  His  whole  nature — that  distinc- 
tive presence  of  the  departed  which  now  stands 
impalpable,  yet  in  strong  outline  before  me, 
as  I  knew  him  and  felt  him  to  be — eludes  the 
rude  grasp  of  a  mind  so  warped  and  uncon- 
genial as  Mr.  Griswold's. 

"But  it  may  be  said,  my  dear  Willis,  that 
Mr.  Poe  himself  deputed  him  to  act  as  his 
literary  executor,  and  that  he  must  have  felt 
some  confidence  in  his  ability  at  least — if  not 
in  his  integrity  to  perform  the  functions  im- 
posed with  discretion  and  honor.  I  do  not 
purpose,  now,  to  enter  into  any  examination 
of  the  appo-intment  of  Mr.  Griswold — nor  of 
the  wisdom  of  his  appointment — to  the  solemn 
trust  of  handing  the  fair  fame  of  the  deceased 
unimpaired  to  that  posterity  to  which  the 
dying  poet  bequeathed  his  legacy — but  simply 
to  question  its  faithful  performance.  Among 
the  true  friends  of  Poe  in  this  city — and  he 
had  some  such  here— there  are  those  I  am  sure 
that  he  did  not  class  among  villains ;  nor  did 
they  feel  easy  when  they  see  their  old  friend 
dressed  out,  in  his  grave,  in  the  habiliments 
of  a  scoundrel.  There  is  something  to  them, 
in  this  mode  of  procedure  on  the  part  of  the 
literary  executor,  that  does  not  chime  in  with 
their  notions  of  'the  true  point  of  honor. '  They 
had  all  of  them  looked  upon  our  departed 
friend  as  singularly  indifferent  to  wealth  for 
its  own  sake,  but  as  very  positive  in  his  opin- 
ions that  the  scale  of  social  merit  was  not  of 
the  highest — that  MIND,  somehow,  was  apt  to 
be  left  out  of  the  estimate  altogether — and 


MEMOIR.  103 

partaking  somewhat  of  his  free  way  of  think- 
ing, his  friends  are  startled  to  find  they  have 
entertained  very  unamiable  convictions.  As 
to  his  'quick  choler'  when  he  was  contradicted, 
it  depended  a  good  deal  upon  the  party  deny- 
ing, as  well  as  upon  the  subject  discussed.  He 
was  quick,  it  is  true,  to  perceive  mere  quacks 
in  literature,  and  somewhat  apt  to  be  hasty 
when  pestered  with  them;  but  upon  most 
other  questions  his  natural  amiability  was  not 
easily  disturbed.  Upon  a  subject  that  he  un- 
derstood thoroughly  he  felt  some  right  to  be 
positive,  if  not  arrogant,  when  addressing  pre- 
tenders. His  'astonishing  natural  advantages' 
had  been  very  assiduously  cultivated  —  his 
daring  spirit  was  the  anointed  of  genius — his 
self-confidence  the  proud  conviction  of  both — 
and  it  was  with  something  of  a  lofty  scorn  that 
he  attacked,  as  well  as  repelled,  a  crammed 
scholar  of  the  hour,  who  attempted  to  palm 
upon  him  his  ill-digested  learning.  Literature 
with  him  was  religion;  and  he,  its  high-priest, 
with  a  whip  of  scorpions  scourged  the  money- 
changers from  the  temple.  In  all  else  he  had 
the  docility  and  kind-heartedness  of  a  child. 
No  man  was  more  quickly  touched  by  a  kind- 
ness— none  more  prompt  to  atone  for  an  in- 
jury. For  three  or  four  years  I  knew  him 
intimately,  and  for  eighteen  months  saw  him 
almost  daily ;  much  of  the  time  writing  or 
conversing  at  the  same  desk ;  knowing  all  his 
hopes,  his  fears,  and  little  annoyances  of  life, 
as  well  as  his  high-hearted  struggle  with  ad- 
Verse  fate — yet  he  was  always  the  same  pol- 


104  MEMOIR. 

ished  gentleman  —  the  quiet  unobtrusive, 
thoughtful  scholar  —  the  devoted  husband — 
frugal  in  his  personal  expenses — punctual  and 
unwearied  in  his  industry — and  the  soul  of 
honor  in  all  his  transactions.  This,  of  course, 
was  in  his  better  days,  and  by  them  we  judge 
the  man.  But  even  after  his  habits  had 
changed,  there  was  no  literary  man  to  whom  I 
would  more  readily  advance  money  for  labor 
to  be  done.  He  kept  his  accounts,  small  as 
they  were,  with  the  accuracy  of  a  banker.  I 
append  an  account  sent  to  me  in  his  own  hand 
long  after  he  had  left  Philadelphia,  and  after 
all  knowledge  of  the  transactions  it  recited 
had  escaped  my  memory.  I  had  returned  him 
the  story  of 'The  Gold  Bug,' at  his  own  re- 
quest, as  he  found  that  he  could  dispose  of  it 
very  advantageously  elsewhere. 

"  'We  were  square  when  I  sold  you  the  "Versi- 
fication" article;  for  which  you  gave  me  first 
$25,  and  afterwards  $7 — in  all  $32  oo 

Then  you  bought  the  "Gold  Bug"  for      -        -5200 


1  got  both  these  back,  so  that  I  owed      -        -        $84  oo 
You  lent  Mrs.  Clemm -12  50 

Making  in  all $96  50 

The  review  of  "Flaccus"  was  3  2^  pp.,  which, 
at  $4,  is  -  -  •••'-- '  -  -  -  $15  oo 

Lowell's  poem  is 10  oo 

The  review  of  Channing,  4  pp.,  is  $16,  of 
which  1  got  $6,  leaving  -  -  -  10  oo 

The  review  of  Halleck,  4  pp.,  is  $16,  of 
which  I  got  $10,  leaving  -  •  -  -  6  oo 

The  review  of  Reynolds,  2  pp.  -       -       -       8  oo 


MEMOIR.  105 

The  review  of  Longfellow,  5  pp.,  is  $20,  of 
which  I  got  $10,  leaving    -        -        -        •  10  oo 

So  I  paid  in  all 59  oo 

Which  leaves  still  due  by  me  -        -        -        $37  50 

"This,  I  find  was  his  uniform  habit  with 
others  as  well  as  myself — carefully  recalling 
to  mind  his  indebtedness,  with  the  fresh  ar- 
ticle sent.  And  this  is  the  man  who  had  *no 
moral  susceptibility,'  and  little  or  nothing  of 
the  'true  point  of  honor.'  It  may  be  a  very 
plain  business  view  of  the  question,  but  it 
strikes  his  friends  that  it  may  pass  as  some- 
thing as  times  go. 

4tl  shall  never  forget  how  solicitous  of  the 
happiness  of  his  wife  and  mother-in-law  he 
was,  whilst  one  of  the  editors  of  Graham's 
Magazine — his  whole  efforts  seemed  to  be  to 
procure  the  comfort  and  welfare  of  his  home. 
Except  for  their  happiness — and  the  natural 
ambition  of  having  a  magazine  of  his  own — I 
never  heard  him  deplore  the  want  of  wealth. 
The  truth  is,  he  cared  little  for  money,  and 
knew  less  of  its  value,  for  he  seemed  to  have 
no  personal  expenses.  What  he  received  from 
me  in  regular  monthly  installments  went 
directly  into  the  hands  of  his  mother-in-law 
for  family  comforts — and  twice  only  I  remem- 
ber his  purchasing  some  rather  expensive  lux- 
uries for  his  house,  and  then  he  was  nervous 
to  the  degree  of  misery  until  he  had,  by  extra 
articles,  covered  what  he  considered  an  impru- 
dent indebtedness.  His  love  for  his  wife  was 

$  Foe's  Foems. 


106  MEMOIR. 

a  sort  of  rapturous  worship  of  the  spirit  of 
beauty  which  he  felt  was  fading-  before  his 
eyes.  I  have  seen  him  hovering  around  her 
when  she  was  ill,  with  all  the  fond  fear  and 
tender  anxiety  of  a  mother  of  her  first-born — 
her  slightest  cough  causing  him  a  shudder,  a 
heart-chill  that  was  visible.  I  rode  out  one 
summer  evening  with  them,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  his  watchful  eyes,  eagerly  bent  upon 
the  slightest  change  of  hue  in  that  loved  face, 
haunts  me  yet  as  the  memory  of  a  sad  strain. 
It  was  this  hourly  anticipation  of  her  loss  that 
made  him  a  sad  and  thoughtful  man  and  lent 
a  mournful  melody  to  his  undying  song. 

"It  is  true  that  later  in  life  Poe  had  much  of 
those  morbid  feelings  which  a  life  of  poverty 
and  disappointment  is  so  apt  to  engender  in 
the  heart  of  man — the  sense  of  having  been 
ill-used,  misunderstood,  and  put  aside  by  men 
of  far  less  ability  and  of  none,  which  preys 
upon  the  heart  and  clouds  the  brain  of  many  a 
child  of  song :  a  consciousness  of  the  inequali- 
ties of  life  and  of  the  abundant  power  of  mere 
wealth  allied  even  to  vulgarity  to  over-ride  all 
distinctions,  and  to  thrust  itself  bedaubed  with 
dirt  and  glittering  with  tinsel  into  the  high 
places  of  society,  and  the  chief  seats  of  the 
synagogue ;  whilst  he,  a  worshiper  of  the  beau- 
tiful and  true,  who  listened  to  the  voices  of 
angels,  and  held  delighted  companionship  with 
them  as  the  cold  throng  swept  disdainfully  by 
him,  was  often  in  danger  of  being  thrust  out 
houseless,  homeless,  beggared  upon  the  world, 
with  all  his  fine  feelings  strung  to  a  tension  of 


MEMOIR.  107 

agony  when  he  thought  of  his  beautiful  and 
delicate  wife  dying  hourly  before  his  eyes. 
What  wonder  that  he  then  poured  out  the 
vials  of  a  long- treasured  bitterness  upon  the 
injustice  and  hollowness  of  all  society  around 
him? 

"The  very  natural  question — 'Wh}'  did  he 
not  work  and  thrive?'  is  easily  answered.  It 
will  not  be  asked  by  the  many  who  know  the 
precarious  tenure  by  which  literary  men  hold  a 
mere  living  in  this  country.  The  avenues 
through  which  they  can  profitably  reach  the 
country  are  few,  and  crowded  with  aspirants 
for  bread  as  well  as  fame.  The  unfortunate 
tendency  to  cheapen  every  literary  work  to  the 
lowest  point  of  beggarly  flimsiness  in  price 
and  profit  prevents  even  the  well-disposed 
from  extending  anything  like  an  adequate  sup- 
port to  even  a  part  of  the  great  throng  which 
genius,  talent,  education,  and  even  misfortune 
force  into  the  struggle.  The  character  of 
Poe's  mind  was  of  such  an  order  as  not  to  be 
very  widely  in  demand.  The  class  of  educated 
mind  which  he  could  readily  and  profitably 
address  was  small  —  the  channels  through 
which  he  could  do  so  at  all  were  few — and 
publishers  all,  or  nearly  all,  contented  with  such 
pens  as  were  already  engaged,  hesitated  to  incur 
the  expense  of  his  to  an  extent  which  would 
sufficiently  remunerate  him ;  hence,  when  he 
was  fairly  at  sea,  connected  permanently  with 
no  publication,  he  suffered  all  the  horrors  of 
prospective  destitution,  with  scarcely  the  abil- 
ity of  providing  for  immediate  necessities ;  and 


108  MEMOIR. 

at  such  moments,  alas !  the  tempter  often  came, 
and  as  you  have  truly  said,  'one  glass*  of  wine 
made  him  a  madman.  Let  the  moralist  who 
stands  upon  'tufted  carpet,'  and  surveys  his 
smoking  board,  the  fruits  of  his  individual  toil 
or  mercantile  adventure,  pause  before  he  lets 
the  anathema,  trembling  upon  his  lips,  fall 
upon  a  man  like  Poe!  who,  wandering  from 
publisher  to  publisher,  with  his  fine  print-like 
manuscript,  scrupulously  clean  and  neatly 
rolled,  finds  no  market  for  his  brain — with 
despair  at  heart,  misery  ahead  for  himself  and 
his  loved  ones,  and  gaunt  famine  dogging  at 
his  heels,  thus  sinks  by  the  wayside,  before 
the  demon  that  watches  his  steps  and  whispers 
oblivion.  Of  all  the  miseries  which  God,  or 
his  own  vices,  inflict  upon  man,  none  are  so 
terrible  as  that  of  having  the  strong  and  will- 
ing arm  struck  down  to  a  child-like  inefficiency, 
while  the  Heart  and  Will  have  the  purpose 
and  force  of  a  giant's  outdoing.  We  must  re- 
member, too,  that  the  very  organization  of 
such  a  mind  as  that  of  Poe — the  very  tension 
and  tone  of  his  exquisitely  strung  nerves — the 
passionate  yearnings  of  his  soul  for  the  beauti- 
ful and  true,  utterly  unfitted  him  for  the  rude 
jostlings  and  fierce  competitorship  of  trade. 
The  only  drafts  of  his  that  could  be  honored 
were  those  upon  his  brain.  The  unpeopled 
air — the  caverns  of  ocean — the  decay  and  mys- 
tery that  hang  around  old  castles — the  thunder 
of  wind  through  the  forest  aisles — the  spirits 
that  rode  the  blast,  by  all  but  him  unseen — 
an<J  the  deep  metaphysical  creations  which 


MEMOIR.  109 

floated  through  the  chambers  of  his  soul  were 
his  only  wealth,  the  High  Change  where  only 
his  signature  was  valid  for  rubies. 

44  Could  he  have  stepped  down  and  chron- 
icled small  beer,  made  himself  the  shifting 
toady  of  the  hour,  and  with  bow  and  cringe  hung 
upon  the  steps  of  greatness,  sounding  the  glory 
of  third-rate  ability  with  a  penny  trumpet,  he 
would  have  been  feted  alive  and  perhaps  been 
praised  when  dead.  But  no!  his  views  of  the 
duties  of  the  critic  were  stern,  and  he  felt  that 
in  praising  an  unworthy  writer  he  committed 
dishonor.  His  pen  was  regulated  by  the  high- 
est sense  of  duty.  By  a  keen  analysis  he  sepa- 
rated and  studied  each  piece  which  the  skillful 
mechanist  had  put  together.  No  part,  how- 
ever insignificant,  or  apparently  unimportant, 
escaped  the  rigid  and  patient  scrutiny  of  his 
sagacious  mind.  The  unfitted  joint  proved  the 
bungler — the  slightest  blemish  was  a  palpable 
fraud.  He  was  the  scrutinizing  lapidary,  who 
detected  and  exposed  the  most  minute  flaw 
in  diamonds.  The  gem  of  first  water  shone  the 
brighter  for  the  truthful  setting  of  his  calm 
praise.  He  had  the  finest  touch  of  soul  for 
beauty — a  delicate  and  hearty  appreciation  of 
worth.  If  his  praise  appeared  tardy,  it  was  of 
priceless  value  when  given.  It  was  true  as 
well  as  sincere.  It  was  the  stroke  of  honor 
that  at  once  knighted  the  receiver.  It  was  in 
the  world  of  mind  that  he  was  king;  and  with 
a  fierce  audacity  he  felt  and  proclaimed  him- 
self autocrat.  As  critic  he  was  Despotic, 
Supreme.  Yet  no  man  with  more  readiness 


110  MEMOIR. 

would  soften  a  harsh  expression  at  the  request 
of  a  friend,  or  if  he  himself  felt  that  he  had 
infused  too  great  a  degree  of  bitterness  into 
his  article,  none  would  more  readily  soften  it 
down  after  it  was  in  type — though  still  main- 
taining the  justness  of  his  critical  views.  I  do 
not  believe  that  he  wrote  to  give  pain ;  but  in 
combating  what  he  conceived  to  be  error,  he 
used  the  strongest  word  that  presented  itself, 
even  in  conversation.  He  labored  not  so 
much  to  reform  as  to  exterminate  error,  and 
thought  the  shortest  process  was  to  pull  it  up 
by  the  roots. 

"He  was  a  worshiper  of  intellect — longing 
to  grasp  the  power  of  mind  that  moves  the 
stars — to  bathe  his  soul  in  the  dreams  of  ser- 
aphs. He  was  himself  all  ethereal,  of  a  fine 
essence,  th  it  moved  in  an  atmosphere  of 
spirits — of  spiritual  beauty  overflowing  and 
radiant — twin  brother  with  the  angels,  feeling 
their  flashing  wings  upon  his  heart,  and  almost 
clasping  them  in  his  embrace.  Of  them,  and 
as  an  expectant  archangel  of  that  high  order 
of  intellect,  stepping  out  of  himself  as  it  were, 
and  interpreting  the  time  he  reveled  in  deli- 
cious luxury  in  a  world  beyond,  with  an  audac- 
ity which  we  fear  in  madmen,  but  in  genius 
worship  as  the  inspiration  of  heaven. 

"But  my  object  in  throwing  together  a  few 
thoughts  upon  the  character  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe  was  not  to  attempt  an  elaborate  criticism, 
but  to  say  what  might  palliate  grave  faults 
that  have  been  attributed  to  him,  and  to  meet 
by  facts  unjust  accusation — in  a  word,  to  give 


MEMOIR.  Ill 

a  mere  outline  of  the  man  as  lie  lived  before 
me.  I  think  I  am  warranted  in  saying  to  Mr. 
Griswold,  that  he  must  review  his  decision. 
It  will  not  stand  the  calm  scrutiny  of  his  own 
judgment,  or  of  time,  while  it  must  be  re- 
garded by  all  the  friends  of  Mr.  Poe  as  an  ill- 
judged  and  misplaced  calumny  upon  that 
gifted  Son  of  Genius. 

"Yours  truly, 

"GEO.  R.  GRAHAM. 
"PHILADELPHIA,  Feb.  2,  1850. 

••TON.  P.  WILJ-IS,  Esq." 


DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A.   POE. 


BY  N.    P.    WILLIS. 


THE  ancient  fable  of  two  antagonistic  spirits 
imprisoned  in  one  body  equally  powerful  and 
having  the  complete  mastery  by  turns — of  one 
man  that  is  to  say,  inhabited  by  both  a  devil 
and  an  angel — seems  to  have  been  realized,  if 
all  we  hear  is  true,  in  the  character  of  the  ex- 
traordinary man  whose  name  we  have  written 
above.  Our  own  impression  of  the  nature  of 
Edgar  A.  Poe  differs  in  some  important  degree, 
however,  from  that  which  has  been  generally 
conveyed  in  the  notices  of  his  death.  Let  us, 
before  telling  what  we  personally  know  of  him, 
copy  a  graphic  and  highly  finished  portraiture, 
from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Rufus  W.  Griswoid,  which 
appeared  in  a  recent  number  of  the  Tribune: — 

"EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  is  dead.  He  died  in  Baltimore  on 
Sunday,  October  7th.  This  announcement  will  startle 
many,  but  few  will  be  grieved  by  it.  The  poet  was 
known,  personally  or  by  reputation,  in  all  this  country ; 
he  had  readers  in  England,  and  in  several  of  the  states 
of  Continental  Europe ;  but  he  had  few  or  no  friends ; 
and  the  regrets  for  his  death  will  be  suggested  princi- 
pally by  the  consideration  that  in  him  literary  art  has 
lost  one  of  its  most  brilliant  but  erratic  stars."  .  .  . 

"His  conversation  was  at  times  almost  super-mortal 
in  its  eloquence.  His  voice  was  modulated  with  aston- 
ishing skill,  and  his  large  and  variably  expressive  eyes 
looked  repose  or  shot  fiery  tumult  into  theirs  who  lis- 
113 


114  DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A. 

tened,  while  his  own  face  glowed,  or  was  changeless  in 
pallor,  as  his  imagination  quickened  his  blood  or  drew 
it  back  frozen  to  his  heart.  His  imagery  was  from 
the  worlds  which  no  mortals  can  see  but  with  the  vision 
of  genius. — Suddenly  starting  from  a  proposition,  ex- 
actly and  sharply  defined,  in  terms  of  utmost  simplicity 
and  clearness,  he  rejected  the  forms  of  customary  logic, 
and  by  a  crystalline  process  of  accretion,  built  up  his 
ocular  demonstrations  in  forms  of  gloomiest  and  ghast- 
liest grandeur,  or  in  those  of  the  most  airy  and  delicious 
beauty — so  minutely  and  distinctly,  yet  so  rapidly,  that 
the  attention  which  was  yielded  to  him  was  chained  till 
it  stood  among  his  wonderful  creations — till  he  himself 
dissolved  the  spell,  and  brought  his  hearers  back  to  com- 
mon and  base  existence,  by  vulgar  fancies  or  exhibitions 
of  the  ignoblest  passion. 

"He  was  at  all  times  a  dreamer — dwelling  in  ideal 
realms — in  heaven  or  hell — peopled  with  the  creatures 
and  the  accidents  of  his  brain.  He  walked  the  streets, 
in  madness  or  melancholy,  with  lips  moving  in  indis- 
tinct curses,  or  with  eyes  upturned  in  passionate  prayer 
(never  for  himself,  for  he  felt,  or  professed  to  feel,  that 
he  was  already  damned,  but)  for  their  happiness  who  at 
the  moment  were  objects  of  his  idolatry ; — or,  with  his 
glances  introverted  to  a  heart  gnawed  with  anguish, 
and  with  a  face  shrouded  in  gloom,  he  would  brave  the 
wildest  storms-;  and  all  night, -with  drenched  garments 
and  arms  beating  the  winds  and  rains,  would  speak  as 
if  to  spirits  that  at  such  times  only  could  be  evoked  by 
him  from  the  Aidenn,  close  by  whose  portals  his  dis- 
turbed soul  sought  to  forget  the  ills  to  which  his  aonsti- 
tution  subjected  him — close  by  the  Aidenn  where  were 
those  he  lovedc — The  Aidenn  which  he  might  never  see, 
but  in  fitful  glimpses,  as  its  gates  opened  to  receive  the 
less  fiery  and  more  happy  natures  whose  destiny  to  sin 
did  not  involve  the  doom  of  death. 

"He  seemed,  except  when  some  fitful  pursuit  subju- 
gated his  will  and  engrossed  his  faculties,  always  to 
bear  the  memory  ot  some  controlling  sorrow.  The  re- 
markable poem  of  The  Raven  was  probably  much  more 
nearly  than  has  been  supposed,  even  by  those  who  were 
very  intimate  with  him,  a  reflection  and  an  echo  of  his 
own  history.  He  was  that  bird's 


DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE.  115 

"  ' unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore — 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 
bore 

Of  "Never — never  more."  ' 

"Every  genuine  author  in  a  greater  or  less  degree 
leaves  in  his  works,  whatever  their  design,  traces  of  his 
personal  character;  elements  of  his  immortal  being,  in 
which  the  individual  survives  the  person.  While  we 
read  the  pages  of  the  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  or  of 
Mesmeric  Revelations,  we  see  in  the  solemn  and  stately 
gloom  which  invests  one,  and  in  the  subtle  metaphysical 
analysis  of  both,  indications  of  the  idiosyncrasies— of 
what  was  most  remarkable  and  peculiar — in  the  author's 
intellectual  nature.  But  we  see  here  only  the  better 
phases  of  his  nature,  only  the  symbols  of  his  juster  ac- 
tion, for  his  harsh  experience  had  deprived  him  of  all 
faith,  in  man  or  woman.  He  had  made  up  his  mind 
upon  the  numberless  complexities  of  the  social  world, 
and  the  whole  system  with  him  was  on  imposture.  This 
conviction  gave  a  direction  to  his  shrewd  and  naturally 
unamiable  character.  Still,  though  he  regarded  society 
as  composed  altogether  of  villains,  the  sharpness  of  his 
intellect  was  not  of  that  kind  which  enabled  him  to  cope 
with  villainy,  while  it  continually  caused  him  by  over- 
shots  to  fail  of  the  success  of  honesty.  He  was  in  many 
respects  like  Francis  Vivian  in  Bulwer's  novel  of  'The 
Caxtons.'  Passion  in  him  comprehended  many  of  the 
worst  emotions  which  militate  against  human  happi- 
ness. You  could  not  contradict  him,  but  you  raised 
quick  choler;  you  could  not  speak  of  wealth,  but  his 
cheek  paled  with  gnawing  envy.  The  astonishing 
natural  advantages  of  this  poor  boy — his  beauty,  his 
readiness,  the  daring  spirit  that  breathed  around  him 
like  a  fiery  atmosphere — had  raised  his  constitutional 
self-confidence  into  an  arrogance  that  turned  his  very 
claims  to  admiration  into  prejudices  against  him.  Iras- 
cible, envious — bad  enough,  but  not  the  worst,  for  these 
salient  angles  were'all  varnished  over  with  a  cold,  repel- 
lent cynicism,  his  passions  vented  themselves  in  sneers. 


116  DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE. 

There  seemed  to  him  no  moral  susceptibility ;  and,  what 
was  more  remarkable  in  a  proud  nature,  little  or  nothing 
cf  the  true  point  of  honor.  He  had,  to  a  morbid  excess, 
that  desire  to  rise  which  is  vulgarly  called  ambition,  but 
no  wish  for  the  esteem  or  the  love  of  his  species;  only 
the  hard  wish  to  succeed — not  shine,  not  serve — succeed 
that  he  might  have  the  right  to  despise  a  world  which 
galled  his  self-conceit. 

"We  have  suggested  the  influence  of  his  arms  and 
vicissitudes  upon  his  literature.  It  was  more  conspicu- 
ous in  his  later  than  in  his  earlier  writings.  Nearly  all 
that  he  wrote  in  the  last  two  or  three  years — including 
much  of  his  best  poetry — was  in  some  sense  biographi- 
cal ;  in  draperies  of  hi  •>  imagination,  those  who  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  trace  his  steps,  eould  perceive,  but 
slightly  concealed,  the  figure  of  himself." 

Apropos  of  the  disparaging  portion  of  the 
above  well-written  sketch,  let  us  truthfully 
say: — 

Some  four  or  five  years  since,  when  editing 
a  daily  paper  in  this  city,  Mr.  Poe  was  em- 
ployed by  us,  for  several  months,  as  critic  and 
sub-editor.  This  was  our  first  personal  ac- 
quaintance with  him.  He  resided  with  his 
wife  and  mother  at  Fordham,  a  few  miles  out 
of  town,  but  was  at  his  desk  in  the  office,  from 
nine  in  the  morning  till  the  evening  paper 
went  to  press.  With  the  highest  admiration 
for  his  genius,  and  a  willingness  to  let  it  atone 
for  more  than  ordinary  irregularity,  we  were 
led  by  common  report  to  expect  a  very  capri- 
cious attention  to  his  duties,  and  occasionally 
a  scene  of  violence  and  difficulty.  Time  went 
on,  however,  and  he  was  invariably  punctual 
and  industrious.  With  his  pale,  beautiful, 
and  intellectual  face,  as  a  reminder  of  what 


DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE.  117 

genius  was  in  him,  it  was  impossible,  of  course, 
not  to  treat  him  always  with  deferential 
courtesy,  and,  to  our  occasional  request  that 
he  would  not  probe  too  deep  in  a  criticism,  or 
that  he  would  erase  a  passage  colored  too 
highly  with  his  resentments  against  society  and 
mankind,  he  readily  and  courteously  assented 
— far  more  yielding  than  most  men,  we 
thought,  on  points  so  excusably  sensitive. 
With  a  prospect  of  taking  the  lead  in  another 
periodical,  he  at  last  voluntarily  gave  up  his 
employment  with  us,  and,  through  all  this  con- 
siderable period,  we  had  seen  but  one  present- 
ment of  the  man — a  quiet,  patient,  industrious, 
and  most  gentlemanly  person,  commanding 
the  utmost  respect  and  good  feeling  by  his 
unvarying  deportment  and  ability. 

Residing  as  he  did  in  the  country,  we  never 
met  Mr.  Poe  in  hours  of  leisure ;  but  he  fre- 
quently called  on  us  afterward  at  our  place  of 
business,  and  we  met  him  often  in  the  street — 
invariably  the  same  sad-mannered,  winning, 
and  refined  gentleman,  such  as  we  had  always 
known  him.  It  was  by  rumor  only,  up  to  the 
day  of  his  death,  that  we  knew  of  any  other 
development  of  manner  or  character.  We 
heard,  from  one  who  knew  him  well  (what 
should  be  stated  in  all  mention  of  his  lament- 
able irregularities),  that,  with  a  single  glass  of 
wine,  his  whole  nature  was  reversed,  the 
demon  became  uppermost,  and,  though  none 
of  the  usual  signs  of  intoxication  were  visible, 
his  will  was  palpably  insane.  Possessing  his 
reasoning  faculties  in  excited  activity,  at  such 


118  DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE. 

times,  and  seeking  his  acquaintances  with  his 
wonted  look  and  memory,  he  easily  seemed 
personating  only  another  phase  of  his  natural 
character,  and  was  accused,  accordingly,  of 
insulting  arrogance  and  bad-heartedness.  In 
this  reversed  character,  we  repeat,  it  was  never 
our  chance  to  see  him.  We  know  it  from 
heresay,  and  we  mention  it  in  connection  with 
this  sad  infirmity  of  physical  constitution ; 
which  puts  it  upon  very  nearly  the  ground  of 
a  temporary  and  almost  irresponsible  insanity. 
The  arrogance,  vanity,  and  depravity  of 
heart,  of  which  Mr.  Poewas  generally  accused, 
seemed  to  us  referrable  altogether  to  this  rev- 
ersed phase  of  his  character.  Under  that 
degree  of  intoxication  which  only  acted  upon 
him  by  demonizing  his  sense  of  truth  and 
right,  he  doubtless  said  and  did  much  that  was 
wholly  irreconcilable  with  his  better  nature; 
but,  when  himself,  and  as  we  knew  him  only, 
his  modesty  and  unaffected  humility,  as  to  his 
own  deservings,  were  a  constant  charm  to  his 
character.  His  letters  (of  which  the  constant 
application  for  autographs  has  taken  from  us, 
we  are  sorry  to  confess,  the  greater  portion) 
exhibited  this  quality  very  strongly.  In  one 
of  the  carelessly  written  notes  of  which  we 
chance  still  to  retain  possession,  for  instance, 
he  speaks  of  "The  Raven" — that  extraordinary 
poem  which  electrified  the  world  of  imagina- 
tive readers,  and  has  become  the  type  of  a 
school  of  poetry  of  its  own — and,  in  evident 
earnest,  attributes  its  success  to  the  few  words 
of  commendation  with  which  we  had  prefaced 


DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE.  119 

it  in  this  paper.  It  will  throw  light  on  his 
same  character  to  give  a  literal  copy  of  the 
note : — 

"FORDHAM,  April  20,  1849. 

"Mv  DEAR  WILLIS: — The  poem  which  I  enclose,  and 
which  I  am  so  vain  as  to  hope  you  will  like  in  some 
respects,  has  been  just  published  in  a  paper  for  which 
sheer  necessity  compels  me  to  write,  now  and  then. 
It  pays  well  as  times  go— but  unquestionably  it  ought 
to  pay  ten  prices;  for  whatever  I  send  it  I  feel  I  am 
consigning  to  the  tomb  of  the  Capulets.  The  verses 
accompanying  this,  may  I  beg  you  to  take  out  of  the 
tomb,  and  bring  them  to  light  in  the  Home  Journal?  It 
you  can  oblige  me  so  far  as  to  copy  them,  I  do  not  think 

it  will  be  necessary  to  say  '  From  the  ,  — that  would 

be  too  bad; — and,  perhaps,  'From  a  late paper,' 

would  do. 

"I  have  not  forgotten  how  a  'good  word  in  season' 
from  you  made  'The  Raven,'  and  made  'Ulalume' 
(which,  by  the  way,  people  have  done  me  the  honor  of 
attributing  to  you) — therefore  I  would  ask  you  (if  I 
dared)  to  say  something  of  these  lines — if  they  please 
you.  '  'Truly  yours  ever, 

"EDGAR  A.  POE." 

In  double  proof — of  his  earnest  disposition 
to  do  the  best  for  himself,  and  as  the  trustful 
and  grateful  nature  which  has  been  denied 
him — we  give  another  of  the  only  three  of  his 
notes  which  we  chance  to  retain : — 

"FORDHAM,  January  22,  1848. 

"My  DEAR  MR.  WILLIS: — I  am  about  to  make  an 
effort  at  re-establishing  myself  in  the  literary  world, 
and  feel  that  I  may  depend  upon  your  aid.  , 

"My  general  aim  is  to  start  a  Magazine,  to  be  called 
'The  Stylus;'  but  it  would  be^useless  to  me,  even  when 
established,  if  not  entirely  out  of  the  control  of  a  pub- 
lisher. I  mean,  therefore,  to  get  up  a  Journal  which 
shall  be  my  own,  at  all  points.  With  this  end  in  view, 


120  DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE. 

I  must  get  a  list  of,  at  least,  five  hundred  subscribers  to 
begin  with: — nearly  two  hundred  I  have  already.  I 
propose,  however,  to  go  South  and  West,  among  my 
personal  and  literary  friends — old  college  and  West 
Point  acquaintances — and  see  what  I  can  do.  In  order 
to  get  the  means  of  taking  the  first  step,  I  propose  to 
lecture  at  the  Society  Library  on  Thursday,  the  3d  ot 
February — and,  that  there  may  be  no  cause  of  squab- 
bling, my  subject  shall  not  be  literary  at  all.  I  have 
chosen  a  broad  text — 'The  Universe.' 

"Having  thus  given  you  the  facts  of  the  case,  I  leave 
all  the  rest  to  the  suggestions  of  your  own  tact  and 
generosity.  Gratefully — most  gratefully — 

"Your  friend  always, 

" EDGAR  A.  POE." 

Brief  and  chance-taken  as  these  letters  are, 
we  think  they  sufficiently  prove  the  existence 
of  the  very  qualities  denied  to  Mr.  Poe — 
humility,  willingness  to  persevere,  belief  in 
another's  kindness,  and  capability  of  cordial 
and  grateful  friendship !  Such  he  assuredly 
was  when  sane.  Such  only  he  has  invariably 
seemed  to  us,  in  all  we  have  happened  person- 
ally to  know  of  him,  through  a  friendship  of 
five  or  six  years.  And  so  much  easier  is  it  to 
believe  what  we  have  seen  and  known,  than 
what  we  hear  of  only,  that  we  remember  him 
but  with  admiration  and  respect — these 
descriptions  of  him,  when  morally  insane, 
seeming  to  us  like  portraits,  painted  in  sick- 
ness, of  a  man  we  have  only  known  in  health. 

But  there  is  another,  more  touching,  and  far 
more  forcible  evidence  that  there  was  goodness 
in  Edgar  A.  Poe.  To  reveal  it,  we  are  obliged 
to  venture  upon  the  lifting  of  the  veil  which 
sacredly  covers  grief  and  refinement  in  povert 


DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE.  121 

— but  we  think  it  may  be  excused,  if  so  we  can 
brighten  the  memory  of  the  poet,  even  were 
there  not  a  more  needed  and  immediate  service 
which  it  may  render  to  the  nearest  link  broken 
by  his  death. 

Our  first  knowledge  of  Mr.  Poe's  removal  to 
this  city  was  by  a  call  which  we  received  from 
a  lady  who  introduced  herself  to  us  as  the 
mother  of  his  wife.  She  was  in  search  of 
employment  for  him,  and  she  excused  her 
errand  by  mentioning  that  he  was  ill,  that  her 
daughter  was  a  confirmed  invalid,  and  that 
their  circumstances  were  such  as  compelled 
her  taking  it  upon  herself.  The  countenance 
of  this  lady,  made  beautiful  and  saintly  with 
an  evidently  complete  giving  up  of  her  life  to 
privation  and  sorrowful  tenderness,  her  gentle 
and  mournful  voice  urging  its  plea,  her  long- 
forgotten  but  habitually  and  unconsciously 
refined  manners,  and  her  appealing  and  yet 
appreciative  mention  of  the  claims  and  abilities 
of  her  son,  disclosed  at  once  the  presence  of 
one  of  those  angels  upon  earth  that  women  in 
adversity  can  be.  It  was  a  hard  fate  that  she 
was  watching  over.  Mr.  Poe  wrote  with  fas- 
tidious difficulty,  and  in  a  style  too  much  above 
the  popular  level  to  be  well  paid.  He  was 
always  in  pecuniary  difficulty,  with  his  sick 
wife,  frequently  in  want  of  the  merest  neces- 
saries of  life.  Winter  after  winter,  for  years, 
the  most  touching  sight  to  us,  in  this  whole 
city,  has  been  that  tireless  minister  to  genius, 
thinly  and  insufficiently  clad,  going  from  office 
to  office  with  a  poem,  or  an  article  on  some 


122  DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE. 

literary  subject,  to  sell— sometimes  simply 
pleading  in  a  broken  voice  that  he  was  ill,  and 
begging  for  him — mentioning  nothing  but 
that  "he  was  ill,"  whatever  might  be  the  rea- 
son for  his  writing  nothing — and  never,  amid 
all  her  tears  and  recitals  of  distress,  suffering 
one  syllable  to  escape  her  lips  that  could  con- 
vey a  doubt  of  him,  or  a  complaint,  or  a 
lessening  of  pride  in  his  genius  and  good  inten- 
tions. Her  daughter  died,  a  year  and  a  half 
since,  but  she  did  not  desert  him.  She  contin- 
ued his  ministering  angel — living  with  him — 
caring  for  hkn — guarding  him  against  expos- 
ure, and,  when  he  was  carried  away  by  tempta- 
tion, amid  grief  and  the  loneliness  of  feelings 
unreplied  to,  and  awoke  from  his  self-abandon- 
ment prostrated  in  destitution  and  suffering, 
begging  for  him  still.  If  woman's  devotion 
born  with  a  first  love,  and  fed  with  human 
passion,  hallow  its  object,  as  it  is  allowed  to 
do,  what  does  not  a  devotion  like  this  pure, 
disinterested,  and  holy  as  the  watch  of  an 
invisible  spirit — say  for  him  who  inspired  it. 

We  have  a  letter  before  us,  written  by  this 
lady,  Mrs.  Clemm,  on  the  morning  in  which  she 
heard  of  the  death  of  this  object  of  her  untir- 
ing care.  It  is  merely  a  request  that  we  would 
call  upon  her,  but  we  will  copy  a  few  of  its 
words — sacred  as  its  privacy  is — to  warrant  the 
truth  of  the  picture  we  have  drawn  above,  and 
add  force  to  the  appeal  we  wish  to  make  for  her : 


"I  have  this  morning  heard  of  the  death  of  my  darling 

Eddie Can  you  give  me  any  circumstances  or 

particulars?  .  .  ,  ,  Oh  '•  do  not  desert  your  poor  friend 


\  DEATH  OF  EDGAR  A.  POE.  123 

in  this  bitter  affliction Ask  Mr.  to  come,  as 

I  must  deliver  a  message  to  him  from  my  poor  Eddie. 
....  I  need  not  ask  you  to  notice  his  death  and  to 
ppeak  well  of  him.  I  know  you  will.  But  say  what  an 
affectionate  son  he  was  to  me,  his  poor  desolate 
mother."  .... 

To  hedge  round  a  grave  with  respect,  what 
choice  is  there,  between  the  relinquished 
wealth  and  honors  of  the  world,  and  the  story 
of  such  a  woman's  unrewarded  devotion? 
Risking  what  we  do,  in  delicacy,  by  making  it 
public,  we  feel — other  reasons  aside — that  it 
betters  the  world  to  make  known  that  there  are 
such  ministrations  to  its  erring  and  gifted. 
What  we  have  said  will  speak  to  some  hearts. 
There  are  those  who  will  be  glad  to  know  how 
the  lamp,  whose  light  of  poverty  has  beamed 
on  their  far-away  recognition,  was  watched 
over  with  care  and  pain — that  they  may  send 
to  her,  who  is  more  darkened  than  they  by  its 
extinction,  some  token  of  their  sympathy. 
She  is  destitute,  and  alone.  If  any,  far  or 
near,  will  send  to  us  what  may  aid  and  cheer 
her  through  the  remainder  of  her  life,  we  will 
joyfully  place  it  in  her  hands. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 


In  speaking;  of  the  Poetic  Principle,  I  have 
no  design  to  be  either  thorough  or  profound. 
While  discussing,  very  much  at  random,  the 
essentiality  of  what  we  call  Poetry,  my  princi- 
pal purpose  will  be  to  cite,  for  consideration, 
some  few  of  those  minor  English  or  American 
poems  which  best  suit  my  own  taste,  or  which 
upon  my  own  fancy  have  left  the  most  definite 
impressions.  By  "minor  poems"  I  mean,  of 
course,  poems  of  little  length.  And  here,  in 
the  beginning,  permit  me  to  say  a  few  words 
in  regard  to  a  somewhat  peculiar  principle, 
which,  whether  rightfully  or  wrongfully,  has 
always  had  its  influence  in  my  own  critical 
estimate  of  the  poem.  I_hpld_  that  a_  long, 
poem  does  not  exist.  I  maintain  that  the 
phrase,  "a  long  poem,"  is  simply  a  flat  contra- 
diction in  terms. 

I  need  scarcely  observe  that  a  poem  deserves 
its  title  only  inasmuch  as  it  excites,  by  elevat- 
ing the  soul.      The  value  of  the  poem  is  in  the 
ratio  of  this   elevating    excitement.     But   all 
excitements  are,  through  a  psychical  necessity,, 
tran^jpnl.     That  degree  of  excitement  which 
would  entitle  a  poem  to  be  so  called  at  all,  can- 
ot be  sustained  throughout  a  composition  of    \ 
ny  great  length.     After  the  lapse  of  half  an     \ 

flnr° — fa*1e — a     \ 

125  ....    \ 


126  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

revulsion  ensues — and  then  the  poem  is  in 
effect,  and  in  fast,  no  longer  such. 

There  are,  no  doubt,  many  who  have  found 
difficulty  in  reconciling  the  critical  dictum 
that  the  "  Paradise  Lost"  is  to  be  devoutly 
admired  throughout,  with  the  absolute  impos- 
sibility of  maintaining  for  it,  during  perusal, 
the  amount  of  enthusiasm  which  that  critical 
dictum  would  demand.  This  great  work,  in 
fact,  is  to  be  regarded  as  poetical  only  when, 
losing  sight  of  that  vital  requisite  in  all  works 
of  Art,  Unity,  we  view  it  merely  as  a  series  of 
minor  poems.  If,  to  preserve  its  Unity — its 
totality  of  effect  of  impression, — we  read  it 
(as  would  be  necessary)  at  a  single  sitting, 
the  result  is  but  a  constant  alternation  of  ex- 
citement and  depression.  After  a  passage  of 
what  we  feel  to  be  true  poetry,  there  follows, 
inevitably,  a  passage  of  platitude  which  no 
critical  prejudgment  can  force  us  to  admire; 
but  if,  upon  completing  the  work,  we  read  it 
again,  omitting  the  first  book — that  is  to  say, 
commencing  with  the  second — we  shall  be  sur- 
prised at  now  finding  that  admirable  which  we 
before  condemned — that  damnable  which  we 
had  previously  so  much  admired.  It  follows 
from  all  this  that  the  ultimate,  aggregate,  or 
absolute  effect  of  even  the  best  epic  under  the 
sun  is  a  nullity: — and  this  is  precisely  Jhe 
fact. 

In  regard  to  the  " Iliad,"  we  have,  if  not 
positive  proof,  at  least  very  good  reason,  for 
believing  it  intended  as  a  series  of  lyrics ;  but, 
granting  the  epic  intention,  I  can  say  only 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  127 

that  the  work  is  based  on  an  imperfect  sense 
of  Art.  The  modern  epic  is,  of  the  supposi- 
titious ancient  model,  but  an  inconsiderate  and 
blindfold  imitation.  But  the  day  of  these 
artistic  anomalies  is  over.  If,  at  any  time, 
any  very  long  poem  were  popular  in  reality — 
which  I  doubt — it  is  at  least  clear  that  no  very 
long  poem  will  ever  be  popular  again. 

That  the  extent  of  a  poetical  work  is  ceteris 
paribus,  the  measure  of  its  merit,  seems  un- 
doubtedly, when  we  thus  state  it,  a  proposition 
sufficiently  absurd — yet  we  are  indebted  for 
it  to  the  Quarterly  Reviews.  Surely  there 
can  be  nothing  in  mere  size,  abstractly  consid- 
ered— there  can  be  nothing  in  mere  bulk,  so 
far  as  a  volume  is  concerned,  which  has  so 
continuously  elicited  admiration  from  these 
saturnine  pamphlets!  A  mountain,  to  be  sure, 
by  the  mere  sentiment  of  physical  magnitude 
which  it  conveys,  does  impress  us  with  a  sense 
of  the  sublime — but  no  man  is  impressed  after 
this  fashion  by  the  material  grandeur  of  even 
"The  Columbiad."  Even  the  Quarterlies 
have  not  instructed  us  to  be  so  impressed  by 
it.  As  yet,  they  have  not  insisted  on  our  esti- 
mating Lamartine  by  the  cubic  foot,  or  Pollock 
by  the  pound — but  what  else  are  we  to  infer 
from  their  continual  prating  about  "sustained 
effort"?  If,  by  "sustained  effort,"  any  little 
gentleman  has  accomplished  an  epic,  let^jisu 
frankly  commend  him  fortheeffpj:f-n«iT'.this 
indeed  t>e  a  thing  commendable — but  let  us 
forbear  praising  the  epic  on  the  effort's  account. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  common  sense,  in  the 


128  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

time  to  come,  will  prefer  deciding-  upon  a  work 
of  Art,  rather  by  the  impression  it  makes — by 
the  effect  it  produces — than  by  the  time  it  took 
to  impress  the  effect,  or  by  the  amount  of 
"sustained  effort"  which  had  been  found  nec- 
essary in  effecting  the  impression.  The  effort 
is,  that  perseverance  is  one  thing  and  genius 
quite  another — nor  can  all  the  Quarterlies  in 
Christendom  confound  them.  By  and  by,  this 
proposition,  with  many  which  I  have  been  just 
urging,  will  be  received  as  self-evident.  In 
the  mean  time,  by  being  generally  condemned 
as  falsities,  they  will  not  be  essentially  dam- 
aged as  truths. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  clear  that  a  poem 
may  be  improperly  brief.  Undue  brevity 
degenerates  into  mere  epigrammatism.  A 
very  short  poem,  while  now  and  then  produc- 
ing a  brilliant  or  vivid,  never  produces  a  pro- 
found or  enduring  effect.  There  must  be  the 
steady  pressing  down  of  the  stamp  upon  the 
wax.  De  Beranger  has  wrought  innumerable 
things,  pungent  and  spirit-stirring;  but,  in 
general,  they  have  been  too  imponderous  to 
stamp  themselves  deeply  into  the  public  atten- 
tion; and  thus,  as  so  many  feathers  of  fancy, 
have  been  blown  aloft  only  to  be  whistled 
down  the  wind. 

A  remarkable  instance  of  the  effect  of  undue 
brevity  in  depressing  a  poem — in  keeping  it  out 
of  the  popular  view — is  afforded  by  the  follow- 
ing exquisite  little  Serenade: 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  129 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 

Has  led  me — who  knows  how? — 
To  thy  chamber- window,  sweet  f 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream— 
The  champak  odors  fall 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  j 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

O,  beloved  as  thou  art! 

O,  lift  me  from  the  grass! 

I  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas) 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast: 
Oh !  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last ! 

Very  few  perhaps,  are  familiar  with  these 
lines — yet  no  less  a  poet  than  Shelley  is  their 
author.  Their  warm,  yet  delicate  and  ethereal 
imagination  will  be  appreciated  by  all — but 
by  none  so  thoroughly  as  by  him  who  has  him- 
self arisen  from  sweet  dreams  of  one  beloved, 
to  bathe  in  the  aromatic  air  of  a  southern 
midsummer  night. 

One  of  the  finest  poems  by  Willis — the  very 
best,  in  my  opinion,  which  he  has  ever  written 
— has,  no  doubt,  through  this  same  defect  of 
undue  brevity,  been  kept  back  from  its  proper 
position,  not  less  in  the  critical  than  in  the. 
popular  view. 


130  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 

'Twas  near  the  twilight-tide — 
And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride. 
Alone  walk'd  she ;  but,  viewlessly, 

Walk'd  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace'charm'd  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honor  charm'd  the  air; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 

And  call'd  her  good  as  fair — 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care.  » 

She  kept  with  care  her  bea'ities  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true — 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo — 
But  honor'd  well  are  charms  to  sell 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 

For  this  world's  peace  to  pray; 
For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air 

Her  woman's  heart  gave  way ! — 
But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  Heaven 

By  man  is  cursed  alway! 

In  this  composition  we  find  it  difficult  to 
recognize  the  Willis  who  has  written  so  many 
mere  "verses  of  society."  The  lines  are  not 
only  richly  ideal,  but  full  of  energy;  while 
they  breathe  an  earnestness — an  evident  sin- 
cerity of  sentiment — for  which  we  look  in  vain 
throughout  all  the  other  works  of  this  author. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  131 

While  the  epic  mania — while  the  idea  that, 
to  merit  in  poetry,  prolixity  is  indispensable — 
has,  for  some  years  past,  been  gradually  dying 
out  of  the  public  mind,  by  mere  dint  of  its  own 
absurdity — we  find  it  succeeded  by  a  heresy 
too  palpably  false  to  be  long  tolerated,  but  one 
which,  in  the  brief  period  it  has  already 
endured,  may  be  said  to  have  accomplished 
more  in  the  corruption  of  our  Poetical  Litera- 
ture than  all  its  other  enemies  combined.  I 
allude  to  the  heresy  of  The  Didactic.  It  has 
been  assumed,  tacitly  and  avowedly,  directly 
and  indirectly,  that  the  ultimate  object  of  all 
Poetry  is  Truth.  Every  poem,  it  is  said, 
should  inculcate  a  moral ;  and  by  this  moral  is 
the  poetical  merit  of  the  work  to  be  adjudged. 
We  Americans  especially  have  patronized  this 
happy  idea;  and  we  Bostonians,  very  espe- 
cially, have  developed  it  in  full.  We  have 
taken  it  into  our  heads  that  to  write  a  poem 
simply  for  the  poem's  sake,  and  to  acknowl- 
edge such  to  have  been  our  design,  would  be 
to  confess  ourselves  radically  wanting  in  the 
true  Poetic  dignity  and  force : — but  the  simple 
fact  is,  that,  would  we  but  permit  ourselves 
to  look  into  our  own  souls,  we  should  imme- 
diately there  discover  that  under  the  sun  there 
neither  exists  nor  can  exist  any  work  more 
thoroughly  dignified — more  supremely  noble 
than  this  very  poem  per  se — this  poem  which 
is  a  poem  and  nothing  more-r-this  poem  writ- 
ten solely  for  the  poem's  sakeT/ 

With  a^tteep-a^revefence  torthe  True  as  ever 
inspired  the  bosom  of  man,  I  would,  neverthe- 


132  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

less,  limit,  in  some  measure,  its  modes  of  incul- 
cation. I  would  limit  to  enforce  them.  I 
would  not  enfeeble  them  by  dissipation.  The 
demands  of  Truth  are  severe.  She  has  no 
sympathy  with  the  myrtles.  All  that  which 
is  so  indispensable  in  Song,  is  precisely  all 
that  with  which  she  has  nothing  whatever  to 
do.  It  is  but  making  her  a  flaunting  paradox, 
to  wreathe  her  in  gems  and  flowers.  In  enforc- 
ing a  truth,  we  need  severity  rather  than 
efflorescence  of  language.  We  must  be  simple, 
precise,  terse.  We  must  be  cool,  calm,  unim- 
passioned.  In  a  word,  we  must  be  in  that 
mood  which,  as  nearly  as  possible,  is  the  exact 
converse  of  the  poetical.  He  must  be  blind 
indeed  who  does  not  perceive  the  radical  and 
chasmal  differences  between  the  truthful  and 
the  poetical  modes  of  inculcation.  He  must 
be  theory-mad  beyond  redemption  who,  in  spite 
of  these  differences,  shall  still  persist  in  at- 
tempting to  reconcile  the  obstinate  oils  and 
waters  of  Poetry  and  Truth. 

Dividing  the  world  of  mind  into  its  three 
most  immediately  obvious  distinctions,  we 
have  the  Pure  Intellect,  Taste,  and  the  Moral 
Sense.  I  place  Taste  in  the  middle,  because 
it  is  just  this  position  which,  in  the  mind,  it 
occupies.  It  holds  intimate  relations  with 
either  extreme,  but  from  the  Moral  Sense  is 
separated  by  so  faint  a  difference  that  Aris- 
totle has  not  hesitated  to  place  some  of  its 
operations  among  the  virtues  themselves. 
Nevertheless,  we  find  the  offices  of  the  trio 
marked  with  a  sufficient  distinction.  Just  as 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  133 

the  Intellect  concerns  itself  with  Truth,  so 
Taste  informs  us  of  the  Beautiful  while  the 
Moral  Sense  is  regardful  of  Duty.  Of  this 
latter,  while  Conscience  teaches  the  obliga- 
tion and  Reason  the  expediency,  Taste  con- 
tents herself  with  displaying  the  charms: — 
waging  war  upon  Vice  solely  on  the  ground  of 
her  deformity — her  disproportion — her  animos- 
ity to  the  fitting,  to  the  appropriate,  to  the 
harmonious — in  a  word,  to  Beauty. 

An  immortal  instinct,  deep  within  the  spirit 
of  man,  is  thus,  plainly,  a  sense  of  the  Beauti- 
ful. This  it  is  which  administers  to  his  de- 
light in  the  manifold  forms,  and  sounds,  and 
odors,  and  sentiments,  amid  which  he  exists. 
And  just  as  the  lily  is  repeated  in  the  lake,  or 
the  eyes  of  Amaryllis  in  the  mirror,  so  is 
the  mere  oral  or  written  repetition  of  these 
forms,  and  sounds,  and  colors,  and  odors,  and 
sentiments,  a  duplicate  source  of  delight.  But 
this  mere  repetition  is  not  poetry.  He  who 
shall  simply  sing,  with  however  glowing  en- 
thusiasm, or  with  however  vivid  a  truth  of 
description  of  the  sights,  and  sounds,  and 
odors,  and  colors,  and  sentiments,  which  greet 
him  in  common  with  all  mankind — he,  I  say, 
has  yet  failed  to  prove  his  divine  title.  There 
is  still  a  something  in  the  distance  which  he 
has  been  unable  to  attain.  We  have  still  a 
thirst  unquenchable,  to  allay  which  he  has  not 
shown  us  the  crystal  springs.  This  thirst  be- 
longs to  the  immortality  of  Man.  It  is  at  once 
a  consequence  and  an  indication  of  his  per- 
ennial existence.  It  is  the  desire  of  the  moth 


134  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

for  the  star.  It  is  no  mere  appreciation  of  the 
Beauty  before  us— but  a  wild  effort  to  reach 
the  Beauty  above.  Inspired  by  an  ecstatic 
prescience  of  the  glories  beyond  the  grave, 
we  struggle,  by  multiform  combinations 
among  the  things  and  thoughts  of  Time,  to 
attain  a  portion  of  that  Loveliness  whose  very 
elements,  perhaps,  appertain  to  eternity  alone. 
And  thus  when  by  Poetry — or  when  by  Music, 
the  most  entrancing  of  the  Poetic  moods — we 
find  ourselves  melted  into  tears — we  weep 
then — not  as  the  Abbate  Gravina  supposes — 
through  excess  of  pleasure,  but  through  a  cer- 
tain petulant,  impatient  sorrow  at  our  inability 
to  grasp  now  wholly,  here  on  earth,  at  once 
and  forever,  those  divine  and  rapturous  joys, 
of  which  through  the  poem,  or  through  the 
music,  we  attain  to  but  brief  and  indetermi- 
nate glimpses. 

The  struggle  to  apprehend  the  supernal 
Loveliness — this  struggle,  on  the  part  of  souls 
fittingly  constituted — has  given  to  the  world 
all  that  which  it  (the  world)  has  ever  been 
enabled  at  once  to  understand  and  to  feel  as 
poetic. 

The  Poetic  Sentiment,  of  course,  may  de- 
velop itself  in  various  modes — in  Painting,  in 
Sculpture,  in  Architecture,  in  the  Dance — 
very  especially  in  Music — and  very  peculiarly, 
and  with  a  wide  field,  in  the  composition  of 
the  Landscape  Garden.  Our  present  theme, 
however,  has  regard  only  to  its  manifestation 
in  words.  And  here  let  me  speak  briefly  on 
the  topic  of  rhythm.  Contenting  myself  with 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  135 

the  certainty  that  music,  in  its  various  modes 
of  meter,  rhythm,  and  rhyme,  is  of  so  vast  a 
moment  in  Poetry  as  never  to  be  wisely  re- 
jected— is  so  vitally  important  and  adjunct, 
that  he  is  simply  silly  who  declines  its  assist- 
ance, I  will  not  now  pause  to  maintain  its 
absolute  essentiality.  It  is  in  Music,  perhaps, 
that  the  soul  most  nearly  attains  the  great  end 
for  which,  when  inspired  by  the  Poetic  Senti- 
ment, it  struggles — the  creation  of  supernal 
Beauty.  It  may  be,  indeed,  that  here  this 
sublime  end  is,  now  and  then,  attained  in  fact. 
We  are  often  made  to  feel,  with  a  shivering 
delight,  that  from  an  earthly  harp  -are  stricken 
notes  which  cannot  have  been  unfamiliar  to 
the  angels.  And  thus  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  in  the  union  of  Poetry  with  Music  in  its 
popular  sense,  we  shall  find  the  widest  field 
for  the  Poetic  development.  The  old  Bards 
and  Minnesingers  had  advantages  which  we 
do  not  possess — and  Thomas  Moore,  singing 
his  own  songs,  was,  in  the  most  legitimate 
manner,  perfecting  them  as  poems. 

To  recapitulate,  then : — I  would  define,  in 
brief,  the  Poetry  of  words  as  The  Rhythmical 
Creation  oT  Beauty.  Its  sole  arbiter  is  Taste. 
WitlTthe  Intellect  or  w7nr*f!TrConscience7"1t 
has  only  collateral  relations.  Unless  incident- 
ally, it  has  no  concern  whatever  either  with 
Duty  or  with  Truth. 

A  few  words,  however,  in  explanation. 
That  pleasure  which  is  at  once  the  most  pure, 
the  most  elevating,  and  the  most  intense,  is 
derived,  I  maintain,  from  the  contemplation 


136  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

of  the  Beauffiul^  In  the  contemplation  of 
Beauty  we  alone  find  it  possible  to  attain  that 
pleasurable  elevation,  or  excitement,  of  the 
soul,  which  we  recognize  as  the  Poetic  Senti- 
ment, and  which  is  so  easily  distinguished 
from  Truth,  which  is  the  satisfaction  of  the  Rea- 
son, or  from  Passion,  which  is  the  excitement 
of  the  heart.  I  make  Beauty,  therefore — using 
the  word  as  inclusive  of  the  sublime — I  ma 


Beauty  the  province  of  the  poem,  simply  ' 
cause  it  is  an  obvious  rule  of  Art  that  effects 
should  be  made  to  spring  as  directly  as  pos- 
sible from  their  causes — no  one  as  yet  having 
been  weak  enough  to  deny  that  the  peculiar 
elevation  in  question  is  at  least  most  readily 
attainable  in  the  poem.  It  by  no  means  fol- 
lows, however,  that  the  incitements  of  Passion, 
or  the  precepts  of  Duty,  or  even  the  lessons  of 
Truth,  may  not  be  introduced  into  a  poem, 
and  with  advantage ;  for  they  may  subserve, 
incidentally,  in  various  ways,  the  general  pur- 
poses of  the  work: — but  the  true  artist  will 
always  contrive  to  tone  them  down  in  proper 
subjection  to  that  Beauty  which  is  the  atmos- 
phere and  the  real  essence  of  the  poem. 

I  cannot  better  introduce  the  few  poems 
which  I  shall  present  for  your  consideration, 
than  by  the  citation  of  the  Proem  to  Mr. 
Longfellow's  "Waif": 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 

Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 

From  an  Eagle  in  his  flight 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  137 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 
Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist ; 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 
That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling 

And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 
"Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music. 

Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 
Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 

And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 
Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer. 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice, 
}0  Foe's  Poemsj 


138  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music. 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day. 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

With  no  great  range  of  imagination,  these 
lines  have  been  admired  for  their  delicacy  of 
expression.  Some  of  the  images  are  very 
effective.  Nothing  can  be  better  than — 


-the  bards  sublime, 


Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

The  idea  of  the  last  quotation  is  also  very 
effective.  The  poem,  on  the  whole,  however, 
is  chiefly  to  be  admired  for  th*  graceful  in- 
souciance of  its  meter,  so  well  in  accordance 
with  the  character  of  the  sentiments,  and  espe- 
cially for  the  ease  of  the  general  manner. 
This  "ease,"  or  naturalness,  in  a  literary 
style,  it  has  long  been  the  fashion  to  regard  as 
ease  in  appearance  alone — as  a  point  of  really 
difficult  attainment.  But  not  so:  a  natural 
manner  is  difficult  only  to  him  who  should 
never  meddle  with  it — to  the  unnatural.  It  is 
but  the  result  of  writing  with  the  understand- 
ing, or  with  the  instinct,  that  the  tone,  in 
composition,  should  always  be  that  which  the 
mass  of  mankind  would  adopt — and  must  per- 
petually vary,  of  course,  w-th  the  occasion. 
The  author,  who,  after  the  fashion  of  The 
North  American  Review,  should  be,  upon  all 
occasions,  merely  "quiet,"  must  necessarily 
upon  many  occasions  be  simply  silly,  or  stupid ; 
and  has  no  more  right  to  be  considered 
"easy,"  or  "natural"  than  a  Cockney  ex- 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  139 

quisite,   or  than  the  sleeping   Beauty  in   the 
wax-works. 

Among  the  minor  poems  of  Bryant,  none 
has  so  much  impressed  me  as  the  one  which  he 
entitles  "June."  I  quote  only  a  portion  of  it: 

There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick,  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  lovetale,  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife-bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what,  if  cheerful  shouts,  at  noon, 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 

With  fairy  laughter  bent? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  musi    flow ; 
But  if,  around  my  pi  ce  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been, 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene ; 
Whose  part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 


140  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills. 
Is — that  his  grave  is  green ; 
And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 
To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 

The  rhythmical  flow,  here,  is  even  voluptu- 
ous— nothing  could  be  more  melodious.  The 
poem  has  always  affected  me  in  a  remarkable 
manner.  The  intense  melancholy  which  seems 
to  well  up,  perforce,  to  the  surface  of  all  the 
poet's  cheerful  sayings  about  his  grave,  we 
find  thrilling  us  to  the  soul — while  there  is  the 
truest  poetic  elevation  in  the  thrill.  The  im- 
pression left  is  one  of  a  pleasurable  sadness. 
And  if,  in  the  remaining  compositions  which  I 
shall  introduce  to  you,  there  be  more  or  less  of 
a  similar  tone  always  apparent,  let  me  remind 
you  that  (how  or  why  we  know  not)  this  cer- 
tain taint  of  sadness  is  inseparably  connected 
with  all  the  higher  manifestations  of  true 
Beauty.  It  is,  nevertheless, 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

The  taint  of  which  I  speak  is  clearly  per- 
ceptible even  in  a  poem  so  full  of  brilliancy 
and  spirit  as  the  "Health"  of  Edward  Coat 
Pinkuey : 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  141 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 
'Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burden'd  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,-— 

The  idol  of  past  years ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain ; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh,  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill'd  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame. 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry. 

And  weariness  a  name. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  Mr.  Pinkney  to 
have  been  born  too  far  south.  Had  he  been  a 
New  Englander,  it  is  probable  that  he  would 


142  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

have  been  ranked  as  the  first  of  American  lyr- 
ists, by  that  magnanimous  cable  which  has  so 
long  controlled  the  destinies  of  American  Let- 
ters, in  conducting  the  thing  called  The  North 
American  Review.  The  poem  just  cited  is 
especially  beautiful ;  but  the  poetic  elevation 
which  it  induces,  we  must  refer  chiefly  to  our 
sympathy  in  the  poet's  enthusiasm.  We  par- 
don his  hyperboles  for  the  evident  earnestness 
with  which  they  are  uttered. 

It  was  by  no  means  my  design,  however,  to 
expatiate  upon  the  merits  of  what  I  should 
read  you.  These  will  necessarily  speak  for 
themselves.  Boccalini,  in  his  " Advertise- 
ments from  Parnassus,"  tells  us  that  Zoilus 
once  presented  Apollo  a  very  caustic  criticism 
upon  a  very  admirable  book: — whereupon  the 
god  asked  him  for  the  beauties  of  the  work. 
He  replied  that  he  only  busied  himself  about 
the  errors.  On  hearing  this,  Apollo,  handing 
him  a  sack  of  unwinnowed  wheat,  bade  him  to 
pick  out  all  the  chaff  for  his  reward. 

Now  this  fable  answers  very  well  as  a  hit  at 
the  critics — but  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that 
the  god  was  in  the  right.  I  am  by  no  means 
certain  that  the  true  limits  of  the  critical  duty 
are  not  grossly  misunderstood.  Excellence, 
in  a  poem  especially,  may  be  considered  in  the 
light  of  an  axiom,  which  need  only  be  properly 
put,  to  become  self-evident.  It  is  not  excel- 
lence if  it  require  to  be  demonstrated  as  such : 
— and  thus,  to  point  out  too  particularly  the 
merits  of  a  work  of  Art,  is  to  admit  that  they 
are  not  merits  altogether. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  143 

Among  the  "Melodies"  of  Thomas  Moore, 
is  one  whose  distinguished  character  as  a  poem 
proper,  seems  to  have  been  singularly  left  out 
of  view.  I  allude  to  his  lines  beginning — 
44 Come,  rest  in  this  bosom."  The  intense 
energy  of  their  expression  is  not  surpassed  by 
anything  in  Byron.  There  are  two  of  the 
lines  in  which  a  sentiment  is  conveyed  that 
embodies  the  all  in  all  of  the  divine  passion  of 
Love — a  sentiment  which,  perhaps  has  found 
its  echo  in  more,  and  in  more  passionate, 
human  hearts  than  any  other  single  sentiment 
ever  embodied  in  words : 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer, 
Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  still 

here: 

Here  still  is  the  smile,  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 
And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 

Oh !  what  was  love  made  for,  if  't  is  not  the  same 
Through  joy  and  through  torment,  through  glory  and 

shame? 

I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt's  in  that  heart, 
I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  art 

Thou  hast  call'd  me  thy  Angel  in  moments  of  bliss, 
And  thy  Angel  I'll  be,  'mid  the  horrors  of  this, — 
Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to  pursue, 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee, — or  perish  there,  too! 

It  has  been  the  fashion,  of  late  days,  to  deny 
Moore  Imagination,  while  granting  him  Fancy 
— a  distinction  originating  with  Coleridge — 
than  whom  no  man  more  fully  comprehended 
the  great  powers  of  Moore.  The  fact  is,  that 
the  fancy  of  this  poet  so  far  predominates 
over  all  his  other  faculties,  and  over  the  fancy 


144  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

of  all  other  men,  as  to  have  induced,  very 
naturally,  the  idea  that  he  is  a  fanciful  only. 
But  never  was  there  a  greater  mistake. 
Never  was  a  grosser  wrong  done  the  fame  of  a 
true  poet.  In  the  compass  of  the  English  lan- 
guage 1  can  call  to  mind  no  poem  more  pro- 
foundly— more  weirdly  imaginative  in  the  best 
sense,  than  the  lines  commencing — **I  would 
I  were  by  that  dim  lake" — which  are  the  com- 
position of  Thomas  Moore.  I  regret  that  I  am 
unable  to  remember  them. 

One  of  the  noblest — and,  speaking  of  Fancy, 
one  of  the  most  singularly  fanciful  of  modern 
poets,  was  Thomas  Hood.  His  "Fair  Ines" 
had  always,  for  me,  an  inexpressible  charm : 

O  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines? 

She's  gone  into  the  West, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest ; 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek. 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

O  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 

Before  the  fall  of  night, 
For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  the  stars  unrival'd  bright ; 
And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 
And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write ! 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier,  j 

Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 

And  whisper'd  thee  so  near ! 
Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  145 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 
That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 
The  dearest  of  the  dear? 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 
With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  wav'd  before ; 
And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore ; 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

— If  it  had  been  no  more ! 

Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song, 
With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng ; 
But  some  were  sad  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 
In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  Farewell, 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines, 

That  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before,— 
Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore ! 
The  smile  that  blessed  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more. 

"The  Haunted  House,"  by  the  same  author, 
is  one  of  the  truest  poems  ever  written — one 
of  the  truest — one  of  the  most  unexception- 
able— one  of  the  most  thoroughly  artistic,  both 
in  its  theme  and  in  its  execution.  It  is,  more- 
over, powerfully  ideal — imaginative.  I  regret 
that  its  length  renders  it  unsuitable  for  the  pur- 
poses of  this  Lecture.  In  place  of  it,  permit 
me  to  offer  the  universally  appreciated 
"Bridge  of  Sighs." 


146 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 


One  more  Unfortunate 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care; 

Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving  and  loathing; — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully, 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now,  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutiful; 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family- 
Wipe  those  poor   lips   of 

hers, 

Oozing  so  clammily, 
Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 
Whilst  wonderment  guess- 
es 
Where  was  her  home. 


Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 

Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 

Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas!  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  Charity 
Under  the  sun! 
Oh!  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed: 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence 
Thrown  from  its  eminence, 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 
With  many  a  light 
From  window  and    case- 
ment, 

From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement 
Houseless  by  night.  . 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and 

shiver 

But  not  the  black  arch, 
Or  the  dark  flowing  river: 
Mad  from  life's  history. 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd— 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world! 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 


14? 


Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Turning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest,— 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast! 
Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And   leaving,  with   meek- 
ness, 
Her  sins  with  her  Saviour! 


In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it,— think  of  it. 
Dissolute  Man! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it 
Then,  if  you  can! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young  and  so  fair! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  so  rigidly, 
Decently,— kindly, — 
Smooth  and  compose  them, 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly! 

The  vigor  of  this  poem  is  no  less  remarkable 
than  its  pathos.  The  versification,  although 
carrying  the  fanciful  to  the  very  verge  of  the 
fantastic,  is  nevertheless  admirably  adapted  to 
the  wild  insanity  which  is  the  thesis  of  the 
poem. 

Among  the  minor  poems  of  Lord  Byron,  is 
one  which  has  never  received  from  the  critics 
the  praise  which  it  undoubtedly  deserves : 

Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 


148  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine ; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  snivered, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  delivered 

To  pain — it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me : 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn— 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me — 

'Tis  of  thee  that  I  think— not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me, 

Though  slandered,  thou  never  couldst  shake,— 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  't  was  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one — 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'T  was  folly  not  sooner  to  shun: 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perished, 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me  that  which  I  most  cherished 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all : 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 


And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 
:h  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee 


Which  j 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  149 

Although  the  rhythm,  here,  is  one  of  the  most 
difficult,  the  versification  could  scarcely  be 
improved.  No  nobler  theme  ever  engaged  the 
pen  of  poet.  It  is  the  soul-elevating  idea,  that 
no  man  can  consider  t  himself  entitled  to 

n+'    Fafa    whiU  tfl    [MS  J^'y^l"^^ 

s.  f^  1inwavrp":Y  love  of  woman. 
tf'rom  Alfred  Tennyson — althoug!ilrFJ>erfect 
sincerity  I  regard  him  as  the  noblest  poet  that 
ever  lived — I  have  left  myself  time  to  cite  only 
a  very  brief  specimen.  I  call  him,  and  think 
him  the  noblest  of  poets — not  because  the 
impressions  he  produces  are,  at  all  times,  the 
most  profound — not  because  the  poetical 
excitement  which  he  induces,  is  at  all  times, 
the  most  intense — but  because  it  is,  at  all 
times,  the  most  ethereal — in  other  words,  the 
most  elevating  and  the  most  pure.  No  poet  is 
so  little  of  the  earth,  earthy.  What  I  am 
about  to  read  is  from  his  last  long  poem,  **The 
Princess:" 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair, 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


150  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign 'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Thus,  although  in  a  very  cursory  and  imper- 
fect manner,  I  have  endeavored  to  convey  to 
you  my  conception  of  the  Poetic  Principle.  It 
has  been  my  purpose  to  suggest  that,  while 
this  Principle  itself  is,  strictly  and  simply,  the 
Human  Aspiration -fAr  ftnpe.rnfl.1  IfeaqtYi  the 
manifestation  of  the  Principle  is  alyaya  found 
in  an  elevating  excitement  of  theN^oull—  q ui te 
independent  of  that  passion  which  is  the  intox- 
ication of  the  Heart — or  of  that  Truth  which 
is  the  satisfaction  of  the  Reason.  For,  in 
regard  to  Passion,  alas!  its  tendency  is  to 
degrade,  rather  than  to  elevate  the  Soul. 
Love,  on  the  contrary — Love — the  true,  the 
divine  Eros — the  Uranian,  as  distinguished 
from  the  Dionaean  Venus — is  unquestionably 
the  purest  and  truest  of  all  poetical  themes. 
Still  in  regard  to  Truth — if,  to  be  sure, 
through  the  attainment  of  a  truth,  we  are  led 
to  perceive  a  harmony  where  none  was  appar- 
ent before,  we  experience,  at  once,  the  true 
poetical  effect — but  this  effect  is  referable  to 
the  harmony  alone,  and  not  in  the  least  degree 
to  the  truth  which  merely  served  to  render  the 
harmony  manifest. 

We  shall  reach,  however,  more  immediately 
a  distinct  conception  of  what  the  true  Poetry 
is,  by  mere  reference  to  a  few  of  the  simple 
elements  which  induce  in  the  Poet  himself  the 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE.  151 

true  poetical  effect.  He  recognizes  the 
ambrosia  which  nourishes  his  soul,  in  the  bright 
orbs  that  shine  in  Heaven — in  the  volutes  of 
the  flower — in  the  clustering  of  low  shrubberies 
— in  the  waving  of  the  grain-fields — in  the 
slanting  of  tall,  Eastern  trees — in  the  blue  dis- 
tance of  mountains — in  the  grouping  of  clouds 
— in  the  twinkling  of  half-hidden  brooks — in 
the  gleaming  of  silver  rivers — in  the  repose  of 
sequestered  lakes — in  the  star-mirroring  depths 
of  lonely  wells.  He  perceives  it  in  the  songs 
of  birds — in  the  harp  of  ./Eolus — in  the  sighing 
of  the  night-wind — in  the  repining  voice  of 
the  forest — in  the  surf  that  complains  to  the 
shore — in  the  fresh  breath  of  the  woods — in 
the  scent  of  the  violet — in  the  voluptuous  per- 
fume of  the  hyacinth — in  the  suggestive  odor 
that  comes  to  him  at  eventide,  from  far-dis- 
tant, undiscovered  islands,  over  dim  oceans, 
illimitable  and  unexplored.  He  owns  it  in  all 
noble  thoughts — in  all  unworldly  motives — in 
all  holy  impulses — in  all  chivalrous,  generous, 
and  self-sacrificing  deeds.  He  feels  it  in  the 
beauty  of  woman — in  the  grace  of  her  step — in 
the  luster  of  her  eye — in  the  melody  of  her 
voice — in  her  soft  laughter — in  her  sigh— in 
the  harmony  of  the  rustling  of  her  robes.  He 
deeply  feels  it  in  her  winning  endearments — 
in  her  burning  enthusiasms — in  her  gentle 
charities — in  her  meek  and  devotional  endur- 
ances— but  above  all — ah,  far  above  all — he 
kneels  to  it — he  worships  it  in  the  faith,  in  the 
purity,  in  the  strength,  in  the  altogether 
divine  majesty  of  her  love. 


152  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

Let  me  >  conclude — by  the  recitation  of  yet 
another  brief  poem — one  very  different  in 
character  from  any  |4iat  I  have  before  quoted. 
It  is  by  Motherwell,  and  is  called  "The  Song 
of  the  Cavalier."  With  our  modern  and  alto- 
gether rational  ideas  of  the  absurdity  and  impi- 
ety of  warfare,  we  are  not  precisely  in  that 
frame  of  mind  best  adapted  to  sympathize  with 
the  sentiments,  and  thus  to  appreciate  the  real 
excellence  of  the  poem.  To  do  this  fully,  we 
must  identify  ourselves,  in  fancy,  with  the  soul 
of  the  old  cavalier. 

Then  mounte !  then  mounte !  brave  gallants,  all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine: 
Deathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

When  the  sword-hilt's  in  our  hand, — 
Heart-whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  f  ayrest  of  the  land ; 
Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight. 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye, 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  die! 


POEMS. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  POEMS. 

These  trifles  are  collected  and  republished  chiefly  with 
a  view  to  their  redemption  from  the  many  improve- 
ments to  which  they  have  been  subjected  while  going 
at  random  "the  rounds  of  the  press. "  I  am  naturally 
anxious  that  what  I  have  written  should  circulate  as  I 
wrote  it,  if  it  circulate  at  all.  In  defense  of  my  own 
taste,  nevertheless,  it  is  incumbent  upon  me  to  say  that 
I  think  nothing  in  this  volume  of  much  value  to  the , 
public,  or  very  creditable  to  myself.  Events  not  to  be 
controlled  have  prevented  me  from  making,  at  any  time, 
any  serious  effort  in  what,  under  happier  circum- 
stances, would  have  been  the  field  of  my  choice.  With 
me  poetry  has  been  not  a  purpose,  but  a  passion ;  and 
the  passions  should  be  held  in  reverence ;  they  must  not 
— they  cannot  at  will  be  excited,  with  an  eye  to  the 
paltry  compensations,  or  the  more  paltry  commenda- 
tions, of  mankind.  E.  A.  P. 


\ 


POEMS. 


THE   RAVEN. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,   while  I  pon- 
dered weak  and  weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of 
forgotten  lore — 

While   I    nodded,    nearly   napping,    suddenly 
there  came  a  tapping 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,    rapping  at 
my  cham-ber  door. 

"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  ** tapping  at 
my  chamber  door — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more. " 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak 

December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its 

ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly   I  wished  the  morrow ; — vainly  I  had 

sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for 

the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the 

angels  name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each 

purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me— filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors 

never  felt  before ; 

155 


156  POE'S  POEMS. 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I 

stood  repeating 
'*  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my 

chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my 

chamber  door; 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitating 
then  no  longer, 

4 'Sir,"  said  I,    "or,    Madam,    truly  your  for- 
giveness I  implore ; 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently 
you  came  rapping, 

And  so   faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at 
my  chamber  door, 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — -here  I 

opened  wide  the  door 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood 
there  wondering,  fearing, 

Doubting,   dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever 
dared  to  dream  before; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness 
gave  no  token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whis- 
pered word,  "Lenore!" — 

This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back 
the  word,  "Lenore!" 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,   all  my  soul 
within  me  burning, 


FOE'S  POEMS.  K7 

Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  something  louder 
than  before. 

" Surely,"  said  I,  " surely  that  is  something  at 
my  window  lattice ; 

Let  me   see,   then,   what  thereat  is   and   this 
mystery  explore — 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mys- 
tery explore ; — 

'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more. " 

Open  here   I   flung  the  shutter,   when,  with 

many  a  flirt  and  flutter 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly 

days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute 

stopped  or  stayed  he, 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above 

my  chamber  door — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my 

chamber  door — 

Perched,  and  sat  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy 
into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  counte- 
nance it  wore, 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou, " 
I  said,  "art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering 
from  the  Nightly  shore — 

nell    me    what  thy  lordly  name  is  on    the 
Night's  Plutonian  shore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven  "Nevermore." 


158  POE'S  POEMS. 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear 

discourse  so  plainly. 
Though     its     answer   little     meaning — little 

relevancy  bore; 
For   we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living 

human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above 

his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above 

his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

But  the   Raven,   sitting  lonely  on  that  placid 

bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word 

he  did  outpour; 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered ;  not  a  feather 

then  he  fluttered — 
Till    I   scarcely   more  than  muttered  "Other 

friends  have  flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes 

have  flown  before. ' ' 

Then  the  bird  said  "Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness   broken   by  reply  so 
aptly  spoken, 

"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only 
stock  and  store 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  un- 
merciful Disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs 
one  burden  bore — 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope   that  melancholy 
burden  bore 

Of  *  Never — nevermore.' tf 


POE'S  POEMS.  159 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul 
into  smiling, 

Straight  1  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of 
bird  and  bust  and  door; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  "betook  my- 
self to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous 
bird  of  yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and 
ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 

Thus  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable 
expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into 
my  bosom's  core; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at 
ease  reclining 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp- 
light gloated  o'er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp- 
light gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore. 

Then,   methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  per- 
fumed from  an  unseen  censer 

Swung  by  Seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled 
on  the  tufted  floor. 

"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee — 
by  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 

Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  mem- 
ories of  Lenore ! 

Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe  and  forget 
this  lost  Lenore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 


160  POE'S  POEMS. 

"Prophet!"  said  I,    "thing  of  evil! — prophet 

still,  if  bird  or  devil! — 
Whether  tempest   sent,    or  whether  tempest 

tossed  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land 

enchanted — 
On   this  home   by  Horror  haunted — tell   me 

truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead? — tell  me — 

tell  me,  I  implore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"    said  I,   "thing  of   evil — prophet 

still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that 

God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the 

distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels 

name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and   radiant   maiden   whom   the 

angels  name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,   bird  or 

fiend!"  I  shrieked,  upstarting — 
"Get   thee   back   into   the    tempest    and   the 

Night's  Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie 

thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken! — quit  the  bust 

above  my  door! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take 

thy  form  from  off  my  door ! ' ' 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 


POE'S  POEMS.  161 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting, 

still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid   bust  of   Pallas  just  above  my 

chamber  door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's 

that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws 

his  shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out   that   shadow  that  lies 

floating  on  the  floor, 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore. 

LENORE. 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl!  the  spirit  flown 

forever ! 
Let  the  bell  toll ! — a  saintly  soul  floats  on  the 

Stygian  river; 
And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear? — weep 

now  or  never  more! 
See !  on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies  thy 

love,  Lenore! 
Come!  let  the  burial  rite  be  read — the  funeral 

song  be  sung! — 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that  ever 

died  so  young — 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she 

died  so  young. 

"Wretches!  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth  and 

hated  her  for  her  pride, 
"And  when   she   fell    in    feeble    health,    ye 

blessed  her — that  she  died ! 
"How   shall  the  ritual,   then,   be  read? — the 

requiem  how  be  sung? 

11  Foe's  Poem* 


162  POE'S  POEMS. 

"By  you — by  yours,  the  evil  eye, — by  yours, 

the  slanderous  tongue 
"That  did  to  death  the  innocence   that  died, 

and  died  so  young?" 

Peccavimus ;    but    rave   not   thus!    and  let   a 

Sabbath  song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may  feel 

no  wrong! 
The  sweet  Lenore  hath  "gone  before,"  with 

Hope,  that  flew  beside, 
Leaving   thee   wild   for    the   dear  child   that 

should  have  been  thy  bride — 
For  her,  the  fair   and   debonair,  that   now  so 

lowly  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair  but  not  within 

her  eyes — 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair — the  death 

upon  her  eyes. 

"Avaunt!    to-night   my   heart  is   light.      No 

dirge  will  I  upraise, 
"But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  Paean 

of  old  days ! 
'* Let  no  bell  toll! — lest  her  sweet  soul,  amid 

its  hallowed  mirth, 
"Should  catch  the  note,  as  it  doth  float  up  from 

the  damned  Earth. 
MTo   friends   above,    from   fiends  below,   the 

indignant  ghost  is  riven — 
"From  Hell  unto  a  high  estate  far  up  within 

the  Heaven — 
14  From  grief  and   groan,  to  a  golden  throne, 

beside  the  King  of  Heaven." 


POE'S  POEMS.  163 

HYMN. 

At  morn — at  noon — at  twilight  dim- 
Maria  thou  hast  heard  my  hymn! 
In  joy  and  woe — in  good  and  ill — 
Mother  of  God,  be  with  me  still ! 
When  the  Hours  flew  brightly  by, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
My  soul,  lest  it  should  truant  be, 
•  Thy  grace  did  guide  to  thine  and  thee. 
Now,  when  storms  of  Fate  o'ercast 
Darkly  my  Present  and  my  Past, 
Let  my  Future  radiant  shine 
With  sweet  hopes  of  thee  and  thine! 

A  VALEBTINE. 

for  her  this  rhyme  is  penned,  whose  luminous 

eyes, 

Byghtly  expressive  as  the  twins  of  Loeda. 
Shajl  find  her  own  sweet  name,  that,  nestling 

lies 
Upon,    the    page,    enwrapped    from    every 

reader. 
Search    narrowly    the    lines !  —  they    hold    a 

treasure 

Diving — a  talisman — an  amulet 
That  mu^t  be  worn  at  heart    Search  well  the 

measure — 

The  word^j— the  syllables !    Do  not  forget 
The  trivi^lest  point,   or   you   may  lose  your 

labor! 

And  yet  there  is  in  this  no  Gordian  knot 
Which  one  mi£ht  not  undo  without  a  saber, 
If  one  could  merely  comprehend  the  plot 


164        .  POE'S  POEMS. 

Enwritten  upon  the  leaf  where  now  are  peer- 
ing 

Eyes  scintillating  soul,  there  lies  perdus 
Three  eloquent  words  oft  uttered  in  the  hear- 
ing 
Of  poets,  by  poets— as  the  name  is  a  poet's, 

too. 
Its  letters,  although  naturally  lying 

Like     the     knight     Pinto — Mendez     Ferdi- 

nando — 

Still  form  a  synonym  for  Truth. — Cease  try- 
ing! 

You  will  not  read  the  riddle,  though  you  do 
the  best  you  can  do. 

[To  translate  the  address,  read  the  first  letter 
of  the  first  line  in  connection  with  the  second 
letter  of  the  second  line,  the  third  letter  of 
the  third  line,  the  fourth  of  the  fourth,  and  so 
on  to  the  end.  The  name  will  thus  appear.] 

THE  COLISEUM. 

Type  of  the  antique  Rome !    Rich  reliquary 

Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 

By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power! 

At  length — at  length — after  so  many  days 

Of  weary  pilgrimage  and  burning  thirst, 

(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee  lie,) 

I  kneel,  an  altered  and  humble  man, 

Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 

My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and  glory! 

Vastness!  and  Age!  and  Memories  of  Eld! 
Silence!  and  Desolation  and  dim  Night! 


POE'S  POEMS.  165 

I  feel  ye  now—  I  feel  ye  in  your  strength — 
O  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judaean  king 
Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane ! 
O  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Chaldee 
Ever  drew  .down  from  out  the  quiet  stars! 

Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls! 
Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 
A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat ! 
Here,  where  the  dames  of  Rome  their  gilded 

hair 
Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed  and 

thistle! 

Here,   where  on  golden  throne  the  monarch 

lolled, 

Glides,  specter-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 
Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 
The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones ! 

But  stay !  these  walls — these  ivy-clad  arcades — 
These  moldering  plinths — these  sad  and  black- 
ened shafts — 
These  vague    entablatures  —  this    crumbling 

frieze — 
These  shattered  cornices  —  this    wreck — this 

ruin — 
These    stones — alas!     these  gray  stones — are 

they  all- 
All  of  the  famed,  and  the  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  Hours  to  Fate  and  me? 

"Not  all" — the   Echoes  answer  me — "not  all! 
"Prophetic  sounds  and  loud,  arise  forever 
"From  us,  and  from  all  Ruin,  unto  the  wise, 
"As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  Sun. 


166  POE'S  POEMS. 

4  We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men— we  rule 
'With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 
'We  are  not  impotent — we  pallid  stones. 
4  Not  all  our  power  is  gone — not^all  our  fame — 
'Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown — 
'Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us — 
*Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie — 
'Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 
'And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 
'Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory." 

TO  HELEN. 

I  saw  thee  once — once  only — years  ago: 

I  must  not  say  how  many — but  not  many. 

It  was  a  July  midnight;  and  from  out 

A  full-orbed  moon,  that,  like  thine  own  soul, 

soaring, 
Sought  a    precip'itate    pathway    up    through 

heaven, 

There  fell  a  silvery-silken  veil  of  light, 
With  quietude,  and  sultriness,  and  slumber, 
Upon  the  upturn 'd  faces  of  a  thousand 
Roses  that  grew  in  an  enchanted  garden, 
Where  no  winds  dared  to  stir,  unless  on  tip- 
toe— 

Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  these  roses 
That  gave  out,  in  return  for  the  love-light, 
Their  odorous  souls  in  an  ecstatic  death — 
Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  these  roses 
That    smiled    and  died  in  this  parterre,   en- 
chanted 

By  thee,  and  by  the  poetry  of  thy  presence, 
Clad  all  in  white,  upon  a  violet  bank 


POE'S  POEMS.  167 

I  saw  thee  half  reclining;  while  the  moon 
Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  the  roses, 
And  on  thine  own,  upturn'd — alas,  in  sorrow! 
Was  it  not  Fate,  that,  on  this  July  midnight — 
Was  it  not  Fate,  (whose  name  is  also  Sorrow,) 
That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden  gate, 
To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  slumbering 

roses? 

No  footsteps  stirred :  the  hated  world  all  slept, 
Save  only  thee  and  me.     (Oh,  Heaven ! — oh, 

God! 
How  my  heart  beats  in  coupling  those  two 

words !) 

Save  only  thee  and  me.     I  paused — I  looked — 
'  And  in  an  instant  all  things  disappeared. 
(Ah,  bear  in  mind  this  garden  was  enchanted!) 
The  pearly  luster  of  the  moon  went  out: 
The  mossy  banks  and  the  meandering  paths, 
The  happy  flowers  and  the  repining  trees, 
Were  seen  no  more :  the  very  roses'  odors 
Died  in  the  arms  of  the  adoring  airs. 
All — all  expired  save  thee — save  less  than  thou: 
Save  only  the  divine  light  in  thine  eyes — 
Save  but  the  soul  in  thine  uplifted  eyes. 
I  saw  but  them — -.they  were  the  world  to  me. 
I  saw  but  them — saw  only  them  for  hours — 
Saw  only  them  until  the  moon  went  down. 
What  wild  heart-histories  seemed  to  lie  en- 
written 

Upon  those  crystalline,  pelestiaL  spheres! 
How  dark  a  woe !  yet  how  sublime  a  hope ! 
How  silently  serene  a  sea  of  pride ! 
How  daring  an  ambition !  yet  how  deep — 
How  fathomless  a  capacity  for  love! 


168  FOE'S  POEMS. 

But  now,   at  length,  dear    Dian    sank    from 

sight, 

Into  a  western  couch  of  thunder-cloud; 
And  thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the  entombing  trees 
Didst  glide  away.  Only  thine  eyes  remained. 
They  would  not  go — they  never  yet  have  gone. 
Lighting  my  lonely  pathway  home  that  night, 
They  have  not  left  me  (as  my  hopes  have) 

since 
They  follow  me — they  lead  me  through    the 

years 

They  are  my  ministers — yet  I  their  slave. 
Their  office  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle — 
My  duty,  to  be  saved  by  their  bright  light, 
And  purified  in  their  electric  fire, 
And  sanctified  in  their  elysian  fire. 
They  fill  my  soul  with  Beauty  (which  is  Hope), 
And  aire  far  up  in  Heaven — the  stars  I  kneel  to 
In  the  sad,  silent  watches  of  my  night ; 
While  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 
I  see  them  still — two  sweetly  scintillant 
Venuses,  unextinguished  by  the  sun ! 

TO . 

Not  long  ago,  the  writer  of  these  lines, 
In  the  mad  pride  of  intellectuality, 
Maintained  "the    power    of    words" — denied 

that  ever 

A  thought  arose  within  the  human  brain 
Beyond  the  utterance  of  the  human  tongue: 
And  now,  as  if  in  mockery  of  that  boast, 
Two  words — two  foreign  soft  dissyllables — 
Italian  tones,  made  only  to  be  murmured 


POE'S  POEMS.  169 

By  angels  dreaming  in  the  moonlit  "dew 
That  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon 

hill,"— 

Have  stirred  from  out  the  abysses  of  his  heart, 
Unthought-like  thoughts  that  are  the  souls  of 

thought, 

Richer,  far  wilder,  far  diviner  visions 
Than  even  the  seraph  harper,  Israfel, 
(Who  has  "the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's 

creatures,") 
Could  hope  to  utter.     And  I !    my  spells  are 

broken. 
The  pen  falls  powerless  from  my  shivering 

hand. 
With  thy  dear  name  as  text,  though  bidden  by 

thee, 

I  cannot  write — I  cannot  speak  or  think — 
Alas,  I  cannot  feel;  for    'tis  not  feeling, 
This  standing  motionless  upon  the  golden 
Threshold  of  the  wide-open  gate  of  dreams, 
Gazing  entranced,  adown  the  gorgeous  vista, 
And  thrilling  as  I  see,  upon  the  right, 
Upon  the  left,  and  all  the  way  along, 
Amid  unpurpled  vapors,  far  away 
To  where  the  prospect  terminates— thee  only. 

ULALUME. 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere — 
The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere- 
It  was  light  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
13  Fotfs  Poemp, 


170  FOE'S  POEMS. 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 
Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic, 

Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  soul — 

Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 
These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 

As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll — 

As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 
Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Mount  Yaanek 

In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole — 
That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 

In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and 

sere — 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 

And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year-^ 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year !) 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber — 

(Though  once  we  had    journeyed    down 
here)— 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent 
And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn — 
As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn— 

At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 
And  nebulous  luster  was  born, 

Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 
Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn — 


POE'S  POEMS.  171 

Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 
Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said — "She  is  warmer  than  Dian: 
She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs — 
She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs : 

She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 

And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 
To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies — 
To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies — 

Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes — 

Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 
With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said — "Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust — 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust : — 

Oh,  hasten! — oh,  let  us  not  linger! 

Oh,  fly! — let  us  fly! — for  we  must." 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 

In  agony  sobbed  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied — "This  is  nothing  but  dreaming: 
Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light! 
Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 

Its  Sybilic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  Hope  and  in  Beauty  to-night: — 
See ! — it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the 
night ! 

Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming 


172  POE'S  POEMS. 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright — 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 
That  cannot  but   guide  us  aright, 
Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the 
night. ' 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom — 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb — 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb ; 

And  I  said — "What  is  written,  sweet  sister 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?" 
She  replied — "Ulalume — Ulalume — 
'Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume!" 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 

As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere — 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried — "It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That    I    journeyed— I    journeyed     down 

here — 
That  I  brought   a    dread    burden    down 

here — 

On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber — 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir. 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir/' 


POE'S  POEMS.  173 

THE  BELLS. 


Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 

Silver  bells! 

V'  hat  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  fore- 
tells! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 
With  the  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

n. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden  bells! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  fore- 
tells! 

Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while 

she  gloats 
On  the  moon! 
Oh,  trom  out  the  sounding  cells, 


174  POE'S  POEMS. 

What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells! 
How  it  swells! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells. 


Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 

Brazen  bells! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,   now,  their  turbulency 

tells! 

In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the 

fire, 

In    a    mad   expostulation  with  the  deaf  and 
frantic  fire 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar. 


POE'S  POEMS.  175 

What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows: 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of 
the  bells— 
Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells! 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 

Iron  bells! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody 

compels ! 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright, 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone; 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 


176  POE'S  POEMS 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls: 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
With  the  paean  of  the  bells! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells: 

Keeping  time,  time,  time 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells—, 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

AN  ENIGMA. 

'* Seldom  we  find,"  says  Solomon  Don  Dunce, 
"Half  an  ideal  in  the  profoundest  sonnet 


11 1  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child."— Page  177. 

Poe's  Poems. 


FOE'S  POEMS.  179 

TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Because  I  feel  that  in  the  Heavens  above, 

The  angels,  whispering  to  one  another, 
Can  find,  among  their  burning  terms  of  love, 

None  so  devotional  as  that  of  "Mother," 
Therefore   by  that   dear   name  I    long    have 
called  you — 

You  who  are  more  than  mother  unto  me, 
And  fill  my  heart  of  hearts,  where  death  in- 
stalled you, 

In  setting  my  Virginia's  spirit  free. 
My  mother — my  own  mother,  who  died  early, 

Was  but  the  mother  of  myself;  but  you 
Are  mother  to  the  one  I  loved  so  dearly, 

And  thus  are  dearer  than  the  mother  I 

knew 
By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 

Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  soul-life. 

THE  HAUNTED  PALACE. 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 

Radiant  palace — reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion — 

It  stood  there! 
Never   seraph  spread  a  pinion!  \ 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair! 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow, 
(This — all  this — was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago,) 


180  POE'S  POEMS. 

And  eveiy  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through  two  luminous  windows,  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lutes'  swell-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting 

(Porphyrogene !) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flow- 
ing 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn ! — for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate!) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travelers,  now,  within  that  valley, 
Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 


POE'S  POEMS.  181 

Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  the  discordant  melody, 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM. 

Lo!  'tis  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years; 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theater,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low, 
And  hither  and  thither  fly — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings 

Invisible  Woe! 

That  motely  drama — oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot ! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore, 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 
Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 


182  POE'S  POEMS. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude ! 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude ! 
It  writhes! — it  writhes! — with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And  the  angels  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 

Out — out  are  the  lights — out  all! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form, 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 
And  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "Man," 

And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm. 

TO  F S  S.  O D. 

Thou  wouldst  be  loved? — then  let  thy  heart 

From  its  present  pathway  part  not ! 
Being  everything  which  now  thou  art, 

Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 

Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise, 

And  love — a  simple  duty. 

TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE. 

Thou  wast  that  all  to  me,  love, 
For  which  my  soul  did  pine — 

A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 
A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 


POE'S  POEMS.  183 

All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last! 

Ah,  starry  Hope !  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"On!  on!" — but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast! 

For,  alas!  alas!  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er! 
"No  more — no  more — no  more! — " 

(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 
To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 

Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 
Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar! 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  dark  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

THE   VALLEY  OF  UNREST. 

Once  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 
Where  the  people  did  not  dwell; 
They  had  gone  unto  the  wars, 
Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 
Nightly,  from  their  azure  towers, 
To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 
In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 


184  POE'S  POEMS. 

The  red  sun-light  lazily  lay.  •?; 

Now  each  visitor  shall  confess 

The  sad  valley's  restlessness.  • 

Nothing  there  is  motionless—  '\ 

Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 

Over  the  magic  solitude. 

Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  trees 

That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 

Around  the  misty  Hebrides! 

Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 

That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  Heaven 

Uneasily,  from  morn  till  even, 

Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 

In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye — 

Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 

And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave! 

They  wave : — from  out  their  fragrant  tops 

Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops. 

They  weep: — from  off  their  delicate  stems 

Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA. 

Lo!  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst 

and  the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
Their  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not !) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 


FOE'S  POEMS.  185 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently — 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free — 
Up  domes — up  spires — up  kingly  halls — 
Up  fanes — up  Babylon-like  walls — 
Up  shadowy  long- forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers — 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvelous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 
So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 
That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 
While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 
Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 
Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves 
But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 
In  each  idol's  diamond  eye — 
Not  the  gayly-jeweled  dead 
Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed; 
For  no  ripples  curl,  alas! 
Along  that  wilderness  of  glass — 
No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 
Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea — 
No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been 
On  seas  less  hideously  serene. 


186  POE'S  POEMS. 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air ! 
The  wave — there  is  a  movement  there! 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide — 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven. 
The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow- — 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low — 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 

THE  SLEEPER. 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 
An  opiate  vapor,  dewy,  dim, 
Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon  the  quiet  mountain  top, 
Steals  drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley. 
The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave ; 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave ; 
Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast, 
The  ruin  molders  into  rest ; 
Looking  like  Lethe,  see!  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 
And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 
All  Beauty  sleeps ! — and  lo !  where  lies 
Her  casement  open  to  the  skies, 
Irene,  with  her  Destinies! 


POE'S  POEMS.  187 

Oh,  lady  bright !  can  it  be  right — 
This  window  open  to  the  night? 
The  wanton  airs,  from  the  tree-top, 
Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop — 
The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 
Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out 
And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 
So  fitfully— so  fearfully- 
Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 
'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid 
That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 
Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall ! 
Oh,  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear? 
Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here? 
Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 
A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees! 
Strange  is  thy  pallor!  strange  thy  dress! 
Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 
And  this  all  solemn  silentness! 

The  lady  sleeps!      Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep ! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep 
This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy, 
This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 
I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 
Forever  with  unopened  eye, 
While  the  dim  sheeted  ghosts  go  by ! 

My  love,  she  sleeps!    Oh,  may  her  sleep, 

As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep! 

Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep! 

Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 

For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold— 


188  POE'S  POEMS. 

Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 
And  winged  pannels  fluttering  back, 
Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls, 
Of  her  grand  family  funerals — 
Some  sepulcher,  remote,  alone, 
Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 
In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone — 
Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more. 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within. 

SILENCE. 

There  are  some  qualities — some    incorporate 

things, 

That  have  a  double  life,  which  thus  is  made 
A  type  of  that  twin  entity  which  springs 
From  matter  and  light,  evinced  in  solid  and 

shade. 

There  is  a  two-fold  Silence — sea  and  shore — 
Body  and  soul.  One  dwells  in  lonely  places, 
Newly  with  grass  o'ergrown;  some  solemn 

graces. 

Some  human  memories  and  tearful  lore, 
Render  him  terrorless:  his  name's  "No  More," 
He  is  the  corporate  Silence;  dread  him  not! 

No  power  hath  he  of  evil  in  himself, 
But  should  some  urgent  tate  (untimely  lot!) 

Bring  thee  to  meet  his  shadow  (nameless  elf. 
That  haunteth  the  lone  regions  where  hath 

trod 
No  foot  of  man,)  commend  thyself  to  God! 


POE'S  POEMS.  189 

A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM. 

Take  this  kiss  upon  the  brow ! 

And,  in  parting  from  you  now, 

Thus  much  let  me  avow — 

You  are  not  wrong,  who  deem 

That  my  days  have  been  a  dream; 

Yet  if  hope  has  flown  away 

In  a  night,  or  in  a  day, 

In  a  vision,  or  in  none, 

Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone? 

All  that  we  see  or  seem 

Is  but  a  dream  within  a  dream. 

I  stand  amid  the  roar 
Of  a  surf -tormented  shore, 
And  I  hold  with  my  hand 
Grains  of  the  golden  sand — 
How  few !  yet  how  they  creep 
Through  my  ringers  to  the  deep. 
While  I  weep — while  I  weep! 
O  God!  can  I  not  grasp 
Them  with  a  tighter  clasp? 
O  God !  can  I  not  save 
One  from  the  pitiless  wave? 
Is  all  that  we  see  or  seem 
But  a  dream  within  a  dream? 

DREAMLAND. 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  Night, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  reached  these  lands  but  newly 


19U  FOE'S  POEMS. 

From  an  ultimate  dim  Thule — 
From  a  wild  weird  clime  that  lieth,  sublime 
Out  of  Space — out  of  Time. 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms,  and  caves,  and  Titan  woods, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover 
For  the  dews  that  drip  all  over; 
Mountains  toppling  evermore 
Into  seas  without  a  shore; 
Seas  that  restlessly  aspire, 
Surging,  unto  skies  of  fire ; 
Lakes  that  endlessly  outspread 
Their  lone  waters — lone  and  dead, — 
Their  still  waters — still  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily. 

By  the  lakes  that  thus  outspread 
Their  lone  waters,  lone  and  dead — 
Their  sad  waters,  sad  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily, — 
By  the  mountains — near  the  river 
Murmuring  lowly,  murmuring  ever, — 
By  the  gray  woods, — by  the  swamp 
Where  the  toad  and  the  newt  encamp, — 
By  the  dismal  tarns  and  pools 
Where  dwell  the  Ghouls— 
By  each  spot  the  most  unholy — 
In  each  nook  most  melancholy, — 
There  the  traveler  meets  aghast 
Sheeted  Memories  of  the  Past — 
Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 
As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by — 
*White-robed  forms  of  friends  long  given, 
In  agony,  to  the  Earth — and  Heaven. 


POE'S  POEMS.  191 

For  the  heart  whose  woes  are  legion 

'Tis  a  peaceful,  soothing  region — 

For  the  spirit  that  walks  in  shadow 

"Tis — oh  'tis  an  Eldorado! 

But  the  traveler,  traveling  through  it, 

May  not — dare  not  openly  view  it; 

Never  its  mysteries  are  exposed 

To  the  weak  human  eye  unclosed ; 

So  wills  its  King,  who  hath  forbid 

The  uplifting  of  the  fringed  lid ; 

And  thus  the  sad  Soul  that  here  passes 

Beholds  it  but  through  darkened  glasses. 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 

Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 

Where  an  Eidolon,  named  Night, 

On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 

I  have  wandered  home  but  newly 

From  this  ultimate  dim  Thule. 

TO  ZANTE. 

Fair  isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers, 

Thy  gentlest  of  all  gentle  names  dost  take! 
How  many  memories  of  what  radiant  hours 

At  sight  of  thee  and  thine  at  once  awake ! 
How  many  scenes  of  what  departed  bliss ! 

How    many    thoughts   of  what    entombed 

hopes ! 
How  many  visions  of  a  maiden  that  is 

No  more — no  more  upon  thy  verdant  slopes! 
No  more !  alas,  that  magical  sad  sound 

Transforming  all!    Thy  charms  shall  please 

no  more ! 
Thy  memory  no  more !     Accursed  ground 


192  POE'S  POEMS. 

Henceforth  I  hold  thy  flower-enameled  shore, 
O  hyacinthine  isle !    O  purple  Zante ! 
"Isola  d'oro!    Fior  di  Levantea!" 

EULALIE. 

I  dwelt  alone 
In  a  world  of  moan, 
And  my  soul  was  a  stagnant  tide, 
Till  the  fair  and  gentle  Eulalie  became   my 

blushing  bride — 

Till  the  yellow-haired  young  Eulalie  became 
my  smiling  bride. 

Ah,  less — less  bright 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Than  the  eyes  of  the  radiant  gill! 
And  never  a  flake 
That  the  vapor  can  make 
With   the   moon-tints  of  purpie   and 

pearl, 

Can  vie  with  the  modest  Eulalie 's  most  unre- 
garded curl — 

Can  compare  with  the  bright-eyed  Eulalie's 
most  humble  and  careless  curl. 

Now  Doubt — now  Pain 
Come  never  again, 
For  her  soul  gives  me  sigh  for  sigh, 
And  all  day  long 
Shines,  bright  and  strong, 
Astarte  within  the  sky, 
While  ever  to  her  dear  Eulalie  upturns  her 

matron  eye — 

While  ever  to  her  young  Eulalie  upturns  her 
violent  eye. 


POE'S  POEMS.  193 

ELDORADO. 

Gaily  bedight, 

A  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 

Had  journeyed  long, 

Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  Eldorado. 

But  he  grew  old — 

This  knight  so  bold — 
And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 

Fell  as  he  found 

No  spot  of  ground 
That  looked  like  Eldorado. 

And,  as  his  strength 

Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow — 

*'  Shadow, "  said  he, 

44  Where  can  it  be — 
This  land  of  Eldorado?" 

"Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon, 
Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadowr 

Ride,  boldly  ride," 

The  shade  replied, — 
"If  you  seek  for  Eldorado!" 

ISRAFEL.* 
In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

*And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  arc  a  lute, 
and  who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures. 
— KORAN. 

13  Foe's  Poems. 


194  POE'S  POEMS. 

" Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute;'* 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 

Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven,) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings — 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angels  trod, 
Where  deep  thoughts   are  a  duty — 

Where  Love's  a  grown  up  God — 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 


'  The  wreath  is  on  my  brow."— Page  199. 

Poe's  Poems. 


POE'S  POEMS.  195 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest! 
Merrily  live,  and  long ! 

The  ecstasies  above 
With  thy  burning  measures  suit — 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute- 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine,  but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 
Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

FOR  ANNIE. 

Thank  Heaven !  the  crisis— 

The  danger  is  past, 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last — 
And  the  fever  called  "Living" 

Is  conquered  at  last 

Sadly,  I  know 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 


196  POE'S  POEMS. 

As  I  lie  at  full  length— 
But  no  matter!— I  feel 
I  am  better  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composed, 
•  Now,  in  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 
Thinking  me  dead. 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 
The  sighing  and  sobbing, 

Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 

At  heart : — ah,  that  horrible, 
Horrible  throbbing! 

The  sickness — the  nausea — 

The  pitiless  pain — 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain — 
With  the  fever  called  **  Living" 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

And  oh !  of  all  tortures 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated — the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  naphthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst: — 
I  have  drank  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst:— 

Of  a  water  that  flows, 
With  a  lullaby  sound, 


POE'S  POEMS.  197 

From  a  spring  but  a  very  few 

Feet  under  ground — 
From  a  cavern  not  very  far 

Down  under  ground. 

And  ah !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy 

And  narrow  my  bed ; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed — 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 

Here  blandly  reposes. 
Forgetting,  or  never 

Regretting  its  roses- 
Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses: 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odor 

About  it,  of  pansies — 
A  rosemary  odor, 

Commingled  with  pansies — 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie 


198  POE'S  POEMS. 

Drowned  in  a  bath 
Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 

She  fondly  caressed, 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast — 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

When  the  light  was  extinguished, 

She  covered  me  warm 
And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm — 
To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly, 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead— 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly, 

Now  in  my  bed, 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead — 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me^ 

Thinking  me  dead: 

But  my  heart  it  is  brighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars  in  the  sky, 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie — 
It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie — 
With  the  thought  ot  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 


POE'S  POEMS.  199 

TO . 

I  heed  not  that  my  earthly  lot 

Hath— little  of  Earth  in  it— 
That  years  of  love  have  been  forgot 

In  the  hatred  of  a  minute : — 
I  mourn  not  that  the  desolate 

Are  happier,  sweet,  than  I, 
But  that  you  sorrow  for  my  fate 

Who  am  a  passer  by. 

BRIDAL  BALLAD. 

THE  ring  is  on  my  hand, 

And  the  wreath  is  on  my  brow; 

Satins  and  jewels  grand 

Are  all  at  my  command, 
And  I  am  happy  now. 

And  my  lord  he  loves  me  well ; 

But,  when  first  he  breathed  his  vow, 
I  felt  my  bosom  swell — 
For  the  words  rang  as  a  knell, 
And  the  voice  seemed  his  who  fell 
In  the  battle  down  the  dell, 

And  who  is  happy  now. 

But  he  spoke  to  re-assure  me, 

And  he  kissed  my  pallid  brow, 
While  a  reverie  came  o'er  me, 
And  to  the  church-yard  bore  me, 
And  I  sighed  to  him  before  me, 
Thinking  him  dead  D'Elormie, 
"Oh,  I  am  happy  now!" 


200  FOE'S  POEMS. 

And  thus  the  words  were  spoken, 

And  this  the  plighted  vow, 
And,  though  my  faith  be  broken, 
And,  though  my  heart  be  broken, 
Behold  the  golden  token 
That  proves  me  happy  now ! 

Would  God  I  could  awaken! 

For  I  dream  I  know  not  how, 
And  my  soul  is  sorely  shaken 
Lest  an  evil  step  be  taken, — 
Lest  the  dead  who  is  forsaken 

May  not  be  happy  now. 


TO    F- 


Beloved !  amid  the  earnest  woes 

That  crowd  around  my  earthly  path — 

(Drear  path,  alas !  where  grows 

Not  even  one  lonely  rose) — 
My  soul  at  least  a  solace  hath 

In  dreams  of  thee,  and  therein  knows 

An  Eden  of  bland  repose. 

And  thus  thy  memory  is  to  me 
Like  some  enchanted  far-off  isle 

In  some  tumultuous  sea — 

Some  ocean  throbbing  far  and  free 
With  storms — but  where  meanwhile 

Serenest  skies  continually 

Just  o'er  that  one  bright  island  smile. 


FOE'S    POEMS.  201 

SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

AN    UNPUBLISHED    DRAMA. 


ROME.— A   Hall    in  a   Palace.      Alessandra  and 
Castiglione. 

Alessandra.     Thou  art  sad,  Castiglione. 

Castiglione.     Sad! — not  I. 
Oh,  I'm  the  happiest,  happiest  man  in  Rome! 
A  few  days  more,   thou  knowest,   my   Ales- 
sandra, 
Will  make  thee  mine.     Oh,  I  am  very  happy! 

Aless.     Methinks  thou  hast  a  singular  way 

of  showing 
Thy  happiness! — what  ails    thee,    cousin    of 

mine? 
Why  didst  thou  sigh  so  deeply? 

Cas.     Did  I  sigh? 

I  was  not  conscious  of  it.     It  is  a  fashion, 
A  silly — a  most  silly  fashion  I  have 
When  I  am  very  happy.    Did  I  sigh?  (sighing). 

Aless.     Thou  didst.     Thou  art  not  well. 

Thou  hast  indulged 

Too  much  of  late,  and  I  am  vexed  to  see  it. 
Late  hours  and  wine,  Castiglione, — these 
Will  ruin  thee!  thou  art  already  altered — 
Thy  looks  are  haggard — nothing  so  wears  away 
The  constitution  as  late  hours  and  wine. 

Cas.     (musing.)     Nothing,  fair  cousin,  noth- 
ing— not  even  deep  sorrow — 
Wears  it  away  like  evil  hours  and  wine, 
I  will  amend. 

}4  Foe's  Poems, 


202  FOE'S    POEMS. 

Aless.     Do  it !     I  would  have  thee  drop 
Thy  riotous  company,  too — fellows  low-born — - 
111  suit  the  like  with  old  Di  Broglio's  heir 
And  Alessandra's  husband. 
Cas.     I  will  drop  them. 
Aless.     Thou    wilt — thou     must.       Attend 

thou  also  more 

To  thy  dress  and  equipage — they  are  over  plain 
For  thy  lofty  rank  and  fashion — much  depends 
Upon  appearances. 
Cas.     I'll  see  to  it. 
Aless.     Then  see  to  it ! — pay  more  attention, 

sir, 
To  a  becoming  carriage — much  thou  wantest 

in  dignity. 
Cas.     Much,    much,    oh    much   I  want 

In  proper  dignity. 

Aless.     (haughtily.)    Thou  mockest  me,  sir! 
Cas.     (abstractedly.)   Sweet,  gentle  Lalage! 
Aless.     Heard  I  aright? 
I  speak  to  him — he  speaks  of  Lalage ! 
Sir  Count!  (places  her  hand  on  his  shoulder) 

what  art  thou  dreaming?   he's  not  well! 
What  ails  thee,  sir? 

Cas.      (starting.)      Cousin!     fair    cousin! — 

madam ! 

I  crave  thy  pardon — indeed  I  am  not  well. 
Your  hand  from  off  my  shoulder,  if  you  please. 
This    air    is    most  oppressive! — Madam — the 
Duke! 

Enter  Di  Broglio. 

Di  Broglio.  My  son,  I've  news  for  thee! — 
hey? — what's  the  matter?  (observing 
Alessandra.) 


POE'S  POEMS.  203 

I'  the  pouts?  Kiss  her,  Castiglione!  kiss  her, 
You  dog !  and  make  it  up,  I  say,  this  minute ! 
I've  news  for  you  both.  Politian  is  expected 
Hourly  in  Rome — Politian,  Earl  of  Leicester! 
We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding.  'Tis  his  first 

visit 
To  the"  imperial  city. 

Aless.     What?     Politian 
Of  Britain,  Earl  of  Leicester? 

Di  Brog.     The  same,  my  love. 
We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding.     A  man  quite 

young 
In  years,  but  gray  in  fame.     I  have  not  seen 

him, 

But  Rumor  speaks  of  him  as  of  a  prodigy 
Pre-eminent  in  arts  and  arms,  and  wealth, 
And  high  descent.     We'll    have    him  at  the 
wedding. 

Aless.     I  have  heard  much  of  this  Politian. 
Gay,  volatile  and  giddy — is  he  not? 
And  little  given  to  thinking. 

Di  Brog.     Far  from  it,  love. 
No  branch,  they  say,  of  all  philosophy 
So  deep  abstruse  he  has  not  mastered  it. 
Learned  as  few  are  learned. 

Aless.     'Tis  very  strange! 
I  have  known  men  have  seen  Politian 
And  sought  his  company.     They  speak  of  him 
As  one  who  entered  madly  into  life, 
Drinking  the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs.    ^ 

Cas.     Ridiculous^    Now  I  have  seen  Politian 
And  know  him  well — nor  learned  nor  mirthful 
he. 


204  POE'S  POEMS. 

He  is  a  dreamer  and  a  man  shut  out 
From  common  passions. 

Di  Brog.     Children,  we  disagree. 
Let  us  go  forth  and  taste  the  fragrant  air 
Of  the  garden.     Did  I  dream,  or  did  I  hear 
Politian  was  a  melancholy  man?       (exeunt.) 

II. 

ROME. — A  lady's  apartment,  with  a  window  open,  and 
looking  into  a  garden.  Lalage,  in  deep  mourning, 
reading  at  a  table  on  which  lie  some  books  and  a 
hand-mirror.  In  the  background,  Jacinta  (a  servant- 
maid)  leans  carelessly  upon  a  chair. 

• 

Lai.     Jacinta!  is  it  thou? 

Jac.      (pertly.)     Yes,  ma'am,  I'm  here. 

Lai,     I  did  not  know,   Jacinta,   you  were  in 

waiting. 

Sit  down ! — let  not  my  presence  trouble  you — 
Sit  down ! — for  I  am  humble,  most  humble. 
Jac.     (aside.)     'Tis  time. 

(Jacinta    seats    herself    in  a  side-long 
manner  upon  the  chair,   resting  her 
elbows  upon  the  back,  and  regarding 
her    mistress   with    a   contemptuous 
look.     Lalage  continues  to  read.) 
Lai.     44It  in  another  climate,"  so  he  said, 
"Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not  i'  this 
soil!" 

(pauses — turns  over  some  leaves  and  re- 
sumes.) 
"No  lingering  winters  there,   nor  snow,  nor 

shower — 
But  Ocean  ever  to  refresh  mankind 


POE'S  POEMS.  205 

"Breathes    the    shrill    spirit  of    the  western 

wind." 

Oh,  beautiful ! — most  beautiful ! — how  like 
To    what    my    fevered    soul    doth  dream   of 

Heaven ! 
O    happy  land!     (pauses.)       She    died! — the 

maiden  died ! 

O  still  more  happy  maiden  who  couldst  die ! 
Jacinta! 

(Jacinta  returns  no  answer,  and  Lalage 

presently  resumes.) 
Again ! — a  similar  tale 
Told  of  a  beauteous  dame  beyond  the  sea! 
Thus  speaketh  one  Ferdinand  in  the  words  of 

the  play — 
"She  died  full  young" — one  Bossola  answers 

him — 

"I  think  not  so — her  felicity 
"Seemed  to  have  years  too  many" — Ah,  luck- 
less lady! 
Jacinta     (still  no  answer.) 

Here's  a  far  sterner  story 
But  like — oh,  very  like  in  its  despair — 
Of  that  Egyptian  queen,  winning  so  easily 
A  thousand  hearts — losing  at  length  her  own. 
She  died.     Thus  endeth  the  history — and  her 

maids 

Lean  over  her  and  weep — two  gentle  maids 
With  gentle  names — Eiros  and  Charmion! 

Rainbow  and  Dove! Jacinta! 

Jac.     (pettishly.)     Madam,  what  is  it? 
Lai.     Wilt  thou,  my  good  Jacinta,  be  so  kind 
As  go  down  in  the  library  and  bring  me 
The  Holy  Evangelists. 


206  POE'S  POEMS. 

Jac.     Pshaw!  (exit.) 
Lai.     If  there  be  balm 

For  the  wounded  spirit  in  Gilead  it  is  there! 
Dew  in  the  night-time  of  my  bitter  trouble 
Will  there  be  found — "dew  sweeter  far  than 

that 

Which  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon 
hill." 

(re-enter  Jacinta,  and  throws  a  volume 

on  the  table.) 
There,  ma'am,  's  the  book.    Indeed  she  is  very 

troublesome,     (aside.) 
Lai.     (astonished.)     What  didst  thou  say, 

Jacinta?     Have  done  aught 
To  grieve  thee  or  to  vex  thee? — I  am  sorry. 
For  thou  hast  served  me  long  and  ever  been 
Trustworthy    and  respectful.       (resumes   her 

reading.) 

Jac.     I  can't  believe 
She  has  any  more  jewels — no — no — she  gave 

me  all.     (aside.) 
Lai.     What  didst  thou  say,  Jacinta?     Now  I 

bethink  me 

Thou  hast  not  spoken  lately  of  thy  wedding. 
How  fares  good   Ugo? — and  when  is  it  to  be* 
Can  I  do  aught? — is  there  no  further  aid 
Thou  needest,  Jacinta? 

Jac.     Is  there  no  farther  aid? 
That's    meant    for    me.       (aside)    I'm    sure, 

Madam,  you  need  not 

Be  always  throwing  those  jewels  in  my  teeth. 
Lai.    Jewels!  Jacinta, — now  indeed,  Jacinta, 
I  thought  not  of  the  jewels. 
Jac.     Oh',  perhaps  not! 


POE'S  POEMS.  207 

But  then  I  might  have  sworn  it.     After  all, 
There's  Ugo  says  the  ring  is  only  paste, 
For  he's  sure  the  Count  Castiglione  never 
Would  have  given  a  real  diamond  to  such  as 

you; 
And  at  the  best  I'm    certain,    Madafen,    you 

cannot 
Have  use  for  jewels  now.      But  I  might  have 

sworn  it.  (exit.) 

(Lalage  bursts  into  tears  and  leans  her 
head  upon  the  table — after  a  short 
pause  raises  it.) 

Lai.     Poor  Lalage ! — and  is  it  come  to  this? 
Thy  servant  maid ! — but  courage! — 'tis  but  a 

viper 
Whom  thou  hast  cherished  to  sting  thee  to  tk« 

soul !  (taking  up  the  mirror. ) 

Ha!     here  at  least's  a    friend — too    much    a 

friend 

In  earlier  days — a  friend  will  not  deceive  thee. 
Fair  mirror  and  true !    now  tell  me  (for  tk«u 

canst) 

A  tale — a  pretty  tale — and  heed  thou  not 
Though  it  be  rife  with  woe.     It  answers  me. 
It  speaks  of  sunken  eyes,  and  wasted  cheeks, 
And  Beauty  long  deceased — remembers  me 
Of  joy  departed — Hope,  the  Seraph  Hope, 
Inurned  and  entombed! — now,  in  a  tone 
Low,  sad,  and  solemn,  but  most  audible. 
Whispers  of  early  grave  untimely  yawning 
For  ruined  maid.     Fair  mirror  and  true !  thou 

liest  not! 

Thou  hast  no  end  to  gain — no  heart  to  break — 
Castiglione  lied  who  said  he  loved 


208  POE'S  POEM$» 

Thou  true— he  false!— false!— false! 

(while  she  speaks,  a  monk  enters  her 
apartment,  and  approaches  unobserved. ) 
Monk.     Refuge  thou  hast, 
Sweet  daughter !  in  Heaven.  Think  of  eternal 

things! 

Give  up  thy  soul  to  penitence,  and  pray ! 
Lai.     (arising  hurriedly.)     I  cannot  pray! — 

My  soul  is  at  war  with  God! 
The  frightful  sounds  of  merriment  below 
Disturbs  my  senses — go!     I  cannot  pray — 
The  sweet  airs  from  the  garden  worry  me ! 
Thy  presence  grieves  me — go! — thy   priestly 

raiment 

Fills  me  with  dread — thy  ebony  crucifix 
With  horror  and  awe ! 

Monk.     Think  of  thy  precious  soul ! 

Lai.      Think  of  my  early  days! — think  of 

my  father 
And  mother  in  Heaven!    think  of  our  quiet 

home, 

And  the  rivulet  that  ran  before  the  door! 
Think  of  my  little  sisters! — think  of  them! 
And  think  of  me ! — think  of  my  trusting  love 
And  confidence — his  vows — my  ruin — think — 
think 

Of  my  unspeakable  misery! begone! 

Vet  stay!    yet  stay! — what  was  it  thou  saidst 

of  prayer 

And  patience?     Didst  thou  not  speak  of  faith 
And  vows  before  the  throne? 
Monk.     I  did. 
Lai.     'Tis  well 


POE'S  POEMS.  209 

There  is  a  vow  were  fitting  should  be  made — 
A  solemn  vow. 

Monk.     Daughter,  this  zeal  is  well! 

Lai.     Father,  this  zeal  is  anything  but  well ! 
Hast  thou  a  crucifix  fit  for  this  thing? 
A  crucifix  whereon  to  register 
This  sacred  vow?         (he  hands  her  his  own.) 
Not  that — Oh!    no! — no-! — no — !  (shuddering.) 
Not  that!     Not  that— I  tell  thee,  holy  man, 
Thy  raiments  and  thy  ebony  cross  affright  me ! 
Stand  back !  I  have  a  crucifix  myself, — 
I  have  a  crucifix!     Methinks  'twere  fitting. 
The  deed — the  vow — the  symbol  of  the  deed— * 
And  the  deed's  register  should  tally,  father! 

(draws  a  cross  handled  dagger  and  raises 

on  high.) 

Behold  the  cross  wherewith  a  vow  like  mine 
Is  written  in  Heaven! 

Monk.     Thy  words  are  madness,  daughter, 
And  speaks  a  purpose  unholy — thy  lips  are 

livid — 
Thine  eyes  are  wild — tempt  not   the    wrath 

divine ! 

Pause  ere  too  late ! — oh  be  not— be  not  rash ! 
Swear  not  the  oath — oh  swear  it  not ! 

Lai.     'Tis  sworn! 

III. 
An  apartment  in  a  palace.    Politian  and  Baldazzar. 

Baldazzar.     Arouse  thee  now,  Politian! 
Thou    must    not — nay    indeed,    indeed,   thoti 
shalt  not 


210  POE'S  POEMS. 

Give  way  unto  these  humors.     Be  thyself! 
Shake  off  the  idle  fancies  that  beset  thee, 
And  live  for  now  thou  diest ! 

Politian.     Not  so,  Baldazzar! 
Surely  I  live. 

Bal.     Politian,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  see  thee  thus. 

Pol.     Baldazzar,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To    give    thee  cause  for  grief,  my    honored 

friend. 
Command  me,   sir!    what  wouldst  thou  have 

me  do? 

At  thy  behest  I  will  shake  off  that  nature 
Which  from  my  forefathers  I  did  inherit, 
Which  with  my  mother's  milk  I  did  imbibe, 
And  be  no  more  Politian,  but  some  other. 
Command  me,  sir! 

Bal.     To  the  field  then— to  the  field- 
To  the  senate  or  the  field 

Pol.     Alas!  alas! 

There  is  an  imp  would  follow  me  even  there! 
There  is  an  imp  hath  followed  me  even  there ! 
There  is what  voice  was  that? 

Bal.     I  heard  it  not. 
I  heard  not  any  voice  except  thine  own, 
And  the  echo  of  thine  own. 

Pol.     Then  I  but  dreamed. 

Bal.     Give  not    thy    soul    to    dreams:   the 

camp — the  court 

Befit  thee — Fame  awaits  thee — Glory  calls — 
And  her  the  trumpet-tongued  thou  wilt  not 

hear 

In  hearkening  to  imaginary  sounds 
And  phantom  voices. 


'The  veriest  coward.     O  pity  me! "—Page  202. 

Poe's  Poems. 


POE'S  POEMS.  2H 

Pol.     It  is  a  phantom  voice ! 
Didst  thou  not  hear  it  then? 

Bal.     I  heard  it  not. 

Pol.      Thou    heardst    it    not! Baldazzar 

speak  no  more 

To  me,  Politian,  of  thy  camps  and  courts 
Oh!  I  am  sick,  sick,  sick,  even  unto  death, 
Of  the  hollow  and  high-sounding  vanities 
Of  the   populous  Earth!     Bear  with  me   yet 

awhile! 

We  have  been  boys  together — school-fellows — 
And  now  are  friends — yet  shall  not  be  so  long — 
For  in  the  eternal  city  thou  shalt  do  me 
A  kind  and  gentle  office,  and  a  Power — 
A  Power  august,  benignant  and  supreme — 
Shall  then  absolve  thee  of  all  farther  duties 
Unto  thy  friend. 

Bal.     Thou  speakest  a  fearful  riddle 
I  will  not  understand.. 

Pol.     Yet  now  as  Fate 

Approaches,  and  the  hours  are  breathing  low, 
The  sands  of    Time    are  changed  to  golden 

grains, 

And  dazzle  me,  Baldazzar.     Alas!  alas! 
I  cannot  die,  having  within  my  heart 
So  keen  a  relish  for  the  beautiful 
As    hath  been  kindled  within  it.      Methinks 

the  air 

Is  calmer  now  than  it  was  wont  to  be — 
Rich  melodies  are  floating  in  the  winds — 
A  rarer  loveliness  bedecks  the  earth — 
And  with  a  holier  luster  the  quiet  moon 
Sitteth   in  Heaven.— Hist!   hist!     thou    canst 
not  say 


21*  POE'S  POEMS. 

Thou  hearest  not  now,  Baldazzar? 
Bal.     Indeed  I  hear  not. 
Pol.     Not  hear  it! — listen!    now    listen!  — 

the  faintest  sound 

And  yet  the  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard ! 
A  lady's  voice!  and  sorrow  in  the  tone! 
Baldazzar,  it  oppresses  me  like  a  spell! 
Again ! — again ! — how  solemnly  it  falls 
Into  my  heart  of  hearts !  that  eloquent  voice 

Surely  I  never  heard — yet  it  were  well 
Had  I  but  heard  it  with  its  thrilling  tones 
In  earlier  days! 

Bal.     I  myself  hear  it  now. 
Be  still! — the  voice,  if  I  mistake  not  greatly, 
Proceeds  from  yonder  lattice  —which  you  may 

see 

Very  plainly  through  the  window — it  belongs, 
Does  it  not?  unto  this  palace  of  the  Duke. 
The  singer  is  undoubtedly  beneath 
The  roof  of  his  Excellency — and  perhaps 
Is  even  that  Alessandra  of  whom  he  spoke 
As  the  betrothed  of  Castiglione, 
His  son  and  heir. 

Pol.     Be  still! — it  comes  again! 

Voice     "And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
(very  faintly.)  As  for  to  leave  me  thus 

Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  wo  among? 
Ana  in  the  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus? 

Say  nay — say  nay!" 
Bal,     The  song  is  English,  and  I  oft  have 

heard  it 
In  merry  England — never  so  plaintively — 


POE'S  POEMS.  213 

Hist !  hist !  it  comes  again ! 

Voice  "Is  it  so  strong 

(more  loudly.)  As  for  to  leave  me  thus 

Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  wo  among? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus? 

Say  nay — say  nay!" 
Bal.     'Tis  hushed  and  all  is  still! 
Pol.     All  is  not  still. 
Bal.     Let  us  go  down. 
Pol.     Go  down,  Baldazzar,  go! 
Bal.     The  hour  is  growing  late — the  Duke 

awaits  us, — 

Thy  presence  is  expected  in  the  hall 
Below.     What  ails  thee,  Earl  Politian? 

Voice        "Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 
(distinctly.)  In  wealth  and  wo  among, 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong? 
Say  nay — say  nay!" 
Bal.     Let  us  descend! — 'tis  time.     Politian, 

give 

These  fancies  to  the  wind.      Remember,  pray, 
Your  bearing  lately  savored  much  of  rudeness 
Unto  the  Duke.    Arouse  thee!  and  remember! 
Pol      Remember?    I    do.      Lead  on!     I  do 
remember.  (going.) 

Let  us  descend.     Believe  me  I  would  give, 
Freely  would  give  the  broad  lands  of  my  earl- 
dom 

To  look  upon  the  face  hidden  by  yon  lattice — 
"To  gaze  upon  that  veiled  face,  and  hear 
Once  more  that  silent  tongue. ' ' 
Bal.     Let  me  beg  you,  sir, 


214  POE'S  POEMS. 

Descend  with  me — the  Duke  may  be  offended. 
Let  us  go  down,  I  pray  you. 

(Voice  loudly.)     Say  nay! — say  nay. 

Pol.     (aside.)       'Tis     strange!  —  'tis     very 

strange — methought  the  voice 
Chimed  in  with  my  desires  and  bade  me  stay ! 
(approaching  the  window.) 
Sweet  voice !  I  heed  thee,  and  will  surely  stay. 
Now  be  this  Fancy,  by  Heaven,  or  be  it  Fate, 
Still  will  I  not  descend.     Baldazzar,  make 
Apology  unto  the  Duke  for  me; 
I  go  not  down  to-night. 

Bal.     Your  lordship's  pleasure 
Shall  be  attended  to.     Good-night,  Politian. 

Pol.     Good-night,  my  friend  good-night 

IV. 

The   gardens  of  a  palace — Moonlight.      Lalage   and 
Politian. 

Lalage.     And  dost  thou  speak  of  love 
To  me,  Politian? — dost  thou  speak  of  love 
To  Lalage? — ah  wo — ah  wo  is  me! 
This  mockery  is  most  cruel — most  cruel  in- 
deed! 
Politian.     Weep  not!  oh,  sob    not    thus! — 

thy  bitter  tears 

Will  madden  me.    Oh,  mourn  not,  Lalage — 
Be  comforted !    I  know — T  know  it  all, 
And  still  I  speak  of  love.     Look  at  me,  bright- 
est, 

And  beautiful  Lalage ! — turn  here  thine  eyes ! 
Thou  askest  me  if  I  could  speak  of  love, 


FOE'S  POEMS.  215 

Knowing  what  I  know,  and  seeing  what  I  have 

seen. 

Thou  askest  me  that — and  thus  I  answer  thee — 
Thus  on  my  bended  knee  I  answer  thee. 

(kneeling.) 
Sweet  Lalage,  I  love  thee  —  love   thee — love 

thee ; 
Thro'  good  and  ill — thro*  weal  and  wo  I  love 

thee. 

Not  mother,  with  her  first-born  on  her  knee, 
Thrills   with  intenser  love    than    I  for  thee. 
Not  on  God's  altar,  in  any  time  or  clime, 
Burned  there  a  holier  fire  than  burneth  now 
Within  my  spirit  for  thee.     And  do  I  love? 

(arising.) 
Everj  for    thy    woes    I  love  thee  —  even  for 

thy  woes — 

Thy  beauty  and  thy  woes. 
Lai.     Alas,  proud  Earl, 
Thou  dost  forget  thyself,  remembering  me! 
How,  in  thy  father's  halls,  among  the  maidens 
Pure  and  reproachless,  of  thy  princely  line, 
Could  the  dishonored  Lalage  abide? 
Thy  wife,  and  with  a  tainted  memory — 
My  seared  and  blighted  name,  how  would  it  tally 
With  the  ancestral  honors  of  thy  house, 
And  with  thy  glory? 

Pol.     Speak  not  to  me  of  glory! 
I  hate — I  loathe  the  name;  I  do  abhor 
The  unsatisfactory  and  ideal  thing. 
Art  thou  not  Lalage  and  I  Politian? 
Do  I  not  love — art  thou  not  beautiful — 
What  need  we  more?  Ha!  glory !— now  speak 
not  of  it : 


216  POE'S  POEMS. 

By  all  I  hold  most  sacred  and  most  solemn— 
By  all  my  wishes  now — my  fears  hereafter — 
By  all  I  scorn  on  earth  and  hope  in  heaven 
There  is  no  deed  I  would  more  glory  in, 
Than  in  thy  cause  to  scoff  at  this  same  glory 
And  trample  it  under  foot.    What  matters  it — 
What  matters  it,  my  fairest,  and  my  best, 
That  we  go  down  unhonored  and  forgotten 
Into  the  dust — so  we  descend  together. 
Descend  together — and  then — and  then  per- 
chance  

Lai.  Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian? 

Pol.  And  then  perchance 
Arise  together,  Lalage,  and  roam 
The  starry  and  quiet  dwellings  of  the  blest, 
And  still 

Lai.  Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian? 

Pol.  And  still  together — together. 

Lai.  Now  Earl  of  Leicester! 
Thou  lovest  me,  and  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  feel  thou  lovest  me  truly. 

Pol.  Oh,   Lalage!    (throwing  himself  upon 

his  knee.) 
And  lovest  thou  me? 

Lai.  Hist !  hush !  within  the  gloom 
Of  yonder  trees  methought  a  figure  past — 
A  spectral  figure,  solemn,  and  slow,  and  noise- 
less— 

Like  the  grim  shadow  Conscience,  solemn  and 
noiseless.       (walks  across  and  returns.) 
I  was  mistaken — 'twas  but  a  giant  bough 
Stirred  by  the  autumn  wind.     Politian! 

Pol.    My  Lalage— my  love!    why  art  thou 
moved! 


POE'S  POEMS.  217 

Why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale !    Not  Conscience* 

self, 

Far  less  a  shadow  which  thou  likenest  to  it, 
Should  shake  the  firm  spirit  thus.    But  the 

night  wind 

Is  chilly — and  these  melancholy  boughs 
Throw  over  all  things  a  gloom. 

Lai.   Politian! 
Thou  speakest  to  me  of  love.     Knowest  thou 

the  land 
With  which  all  tongues  are  busy — a  land  new 

found — 

Miraculously  found  by  one  of  Genoa — 
A  thousand  leagues  within  the  golden  west? 
A  fairy  land  of  flowers,   and  fruit,   and  sun^ 

shine, 

And  crystal  lakes,  and  overarching  forests. 
And  mountains,  around  whose  towering  sum- 
mits the  winds 
Of  Heaven  untrammeled  flow — which   air  to 

breathe 

Is  Happiness  now,  and  will  be  Freedom  here- 
after 
In  days  that  art  to  come? 

Pol.   O,  wilt  thou— wilt  thou 
Fly  to  that  Paradise — my  Lalage,  wilt  thou 
Fly  thither  with  me?    There  Care  shall  be  for- 
gotten, 

And  Sorrow  shall  be  no  more,  and  Eros  be  all 
And  lite  shall  then  be  mine,  for  I  will  live 
For  thee,  and  in  thine  eyes — and  thou  shalt  be 
No  more  a  mourner— but  the  radiant  Joys 
Shall  wait  upon  thee,  and  the  angel  Hope 
Attend  thee  ever;  and  I  will  kneel  to  thee 


POE'S  POEMS.  218 

And  worship  thee,  and  call  thee  my  beloved, 
My  own,  my  beautiful,  my  love,  my  wife, 
My  all ; — oh,  wilt  thou — wilt  thou,  Lalage, 
Fly  thither  with  me? 

Lai.  A  deed  is  to  be  done — 
Castiglione  lives! 

Pol.   And  he  shall  die !  (exit.) 

Lai.   (after   a  pause.)     And  —  he  —  shall — 

die ! alas 

Castiglione  die!    Who  spoke  the  words? 
Where  am  I?— what  was  it  he  said? — Politian! 
Thou  art  not  gone — thou  art  not  gone,  Poli- 
tian. 

I  feel  thou  art  not  gone — yet  dare  not  look, 
Lest  I  behold  thee  not ;  thou  couldst  not  go 
With  those  words  upon  thy  lips  —  O,  speak 

to  me ! 
And  let  me  hear   thy  voice — one  word — one 

word, 

To  say  thou  art  not  gone, — one  little  sentence, 
To  say  how  thou  dost  scorn — how  thou  dost 

hate 

My  womanly  weakness.     Ha!  ha!  thou  art  not 
gone— 

0  speak  to  me !  I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  go ! 

1  knew   thou  wouldst  not,  couldst  not,  durst 

not  go. 

Villain,  thou  art  not  gone — thou  mockest  me ! 
And  thus  I  clutch  thee — thus ! He  is  gone, 

gone,  he  is  gone- 
Gone — gone.      Where  am  I? 'tis  well — 'tis 

very  well! 

So  that  the  blade  be  keen — the  blow  be  sure, 
'Tis  well,  'tis  very  well — alas!  alas! 


219  PO£'S  POEMS. 

i 

V. 

The  suburbs.    Politian  alone. 

Politian.     This  weakness  grows  upon   me. 

I  am  faint 

And  much  1  fear  me  ill — it  will  not  do 
To  die  ere  I  have  lived ! — Stay — stay  thy  hand, 
O  Azrael,  yet  awhile ! — Prince  of  the    Powers 
Of  Darkness  and  the  Tomb,  O  pity  me ! 
O  pity  me !  let  me  not  perish  now, 
In  the  budding  of  my  Paradisal  Hope! 
Give  me  to  live  yet — yet  a  little  while : 
Tis  I  who  pray  for  life — I  who  so  late 
Demanded  but  to  die ! — what  sayeth  the  Count? 

Enter  Baldazzar. 

Baldazzar.  That  knowing  no  cause  of  quarrel 

or  of  feud 

Between  the  earl  Politian  and  himself, 
He  doth  decline  your  cartel. 
Pol.  What  didst  thou  say? 
What  answer    was  it  you  brought  me,  good 

Baldazzar? 
With   what  excessive    fragrance    the  zephyr 

comes 

Laden  from  yonder  bowers! — a  fairer  day, 
Or  one  more  worthy  Italy,  methinks 
No  mortal   eyes  have  seen !  —  what   said  the 

Count? 

Bal.  That  he,  Castiglione,  not  being  aware 
Of  any  feud  existing,  or  any  cause 
Of  quarrel  between  your  lordship  and  himself 
Cannot  accept  the  challenge. 


POE'S  POEMS.  220 

Pol.   It  is  most  true — 
All  this  is  very  true.     When  saw  you,  sir, 
When  saw  you  now,  Baldazzar,  in  the  frigid 
Ungenial  Britain  which  we  left  so  lately, 
A  heaven  so  calm  as  this — so  utterly  free 
From  the  evil  taint  of  clouds? — and  he  did  say? 

Bal.   No  more,   my  lord,  than   1   have  told 

you,  sir: 

The  Count  Castiglione  will  not  fight, 
Having  no  cause  for  quarrel. 

Pol.   Now  this  is  true — 

All  very  true.   Thou  art  my  friend,  Baldazzar, 
And  I  have  not  forgotten  it — thou'lt  do  me 
A  piece  of  service;  wilt  thou  go  back  and  say 
Unto  this  man,  that  I,  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
Hold  him  a  villain? — thus  much,  I  prythee,  say 
Unto  the  Count — it  is  exceeding  just 
He  should  have  cause  for  quarrel. 

Bal.   My  lord! — my  friend! 

Pol.    (aside.)    'Tis  he  —  he  comes    himself! 

(aloud.)  Thou  reasonest  well. 
I  know  what  thou  wouldst  say — not  send  the 

message — 

Well!— I  will  think  of  it — I  will  not  send  it. 
Now  prithee,  leave  me — hither  doth  come  a 

person 

With  whom  affairs  of  a  most  private  nature 
I  would  adjust. 

Bal.   I  go — to-morrow  we  meet, 
Do  we  not? — at  the  Vatican? 

Pol.  At  the  Vatican.  (Bal.  exit.) 

Enter  Castiglione. 
Cas.  The  Earl  of  Leicester  here! 


221  POE'S  POEMS. 

Pol.   I  am  the  Earl  of  Leicester,   and  thou 

seest, 

Dost  thou  not?  that  I  am  here. 
Cas.   My  lord,  some  strange, 
Some   singular   mistake — misunderstanding — 
Hath  without    doubt    arisen,  thou  hast    beon 

urged 

Thereby,  in  heat  of  anger,  to  address 
Some  words  most  unaccountable,  in  writing, 
To  me,  Castiglione;  the  bearer  being 
Baldazzar,  Duke  of  Surrey.     I  am  aware 
Of  nothing  which  might  warrant  thee  in  this 

thing, 
Having  given  thee    no  offense.    Ha! — am  I 

right? 

'Twas  a  mistake? — undoubtedly — we  all 
Do  err  at  times. 

Pol.   Draw,  villain,  and  prate  no  more ! 
Cas.  Ha!— draw? — and  villain?  have  at  thee 

then  at  once, 
Proud  Earl!  (draws.) 

Pol.   (drawing.)  Thus  to  the  expiatory  tomb, 
Untimely  sepulcher,  I  do  devote  thee 
In  the  name  of  Lalage ! 
Cas.  (letting  fall  his  sword  and  recoiling  to 

the  extremity  of  the  stage.) 
Of  Lalage! 

Hold  off — thy  sacred  hand — avaunt  I  say! 
Avaunt — I  will  not  fight  thee — indeed  I  dare 

not 
Pol.   Thou  wilt  not  fight  with  me  didst  say, 

Sir  Count? 

Shall  I  be  baffled  thus? — now  this  is  well. 
Didst  say  thou  darest  not?    Ha! 


POE'S  POEMS.  222 

Cas.  I  dare  not — dare  not — 
Hold  off  thy  hand — with  that  beloved  name 
So  fresh  upon  thy  lips  I  will  not  fight  thee — 
I  cannot — dare  not. 

Pol.   Now  by  my  halidom 
I  do  believe  thee! — coward,  1  do  believe  thee! 
Cas.   Ha! — coward! — this  may  not  be! 

(clutches  his  sword  and  staggers  towards 
Politian,     but    his    purpose     is     changed 
before  reaching  him,  and  he  falls  upon  his 
knee  at  the  feet  of  the  Earl.) 
Alas!    my  lord,     It  is — it  is — most  true.    In 

such  a  cause 
1  am  the  veriest  coward.     O  pity  me! 

Pol.   (greatly  softened.)  Alas! — I  do— indeed 
I  pity  thee. 

Cas.  And  Lalage 

Pol.  Scoundrel! — arise,  and  die! 

Cas.   It  needeth  not  be — thus — thus — O  let 

me  die 

Thus  on  my  bended  knee.   It  were  most  fitting 
That  in  this  deep  humiliation  I  perish. 
For  in  the  fight  I  will  not  raise  a  hand 
Against  thee,  Earl  of  Leicester.     Strike  thou 

home —  (baring  his  bosom.) 

Here  is  no  let  nor  hindrance  to  thy  weapon — 
Strike  home.    I  will  not  fight  thee. 

Pol.   Now's  death  and  hell! 
Am    I    not  —  am    I    not    sorely  —  grievously 

tempted 

To  take  thee  at  thy  word?    But  mark  me,  sir: 
Think  not  to  fly  me  thus.     Do  thou  prepare 
For  public  insult  in  the  streets — before 
The  eyes  of  the  citizens.     I'll  follow  thee — 


223  POE'S  POEMS. 

Like  an  avenging  spirit  I'll  follow  thee, 
Even  unto  death.     Before  those  whom  thou 

lovest — 
Before  all  Rome,  I'll  taunt  thee,   villain,  I'll 

taunt  thee, — 
Dost  hear?  with  cowardice — thou  wilt  not  fight 

me? 
Thouliest!  thoushalt!  (exit.) 

Cas.   Now  this  indeed  is  just! 
Most    righteous,    and    most    just,     avenging 

Heaven ! 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH.* 


SONNET— TO  SCIENCE. 

Science!  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art! 

Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  peering  eyes. 
Why  preyest  thou  thus  upon  the  poet's  heart, 

Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities? 
How  should  he  love  thee?  or  how  deem  thee 
wise, 

Who  wouldst  not  leave  him  in  his  wandering 
To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jeweled  skies, 

Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  wing? 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car 

And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star 

Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 

The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind 
tree? 

*Private  reasons — some  of  which  have  reference  to 
the  sin  of  plagiarism,  and  others  to  the  date  of  Tenny- 
son's first  poems — have  induced  me,  after  some  hesita- 
tion, to  republish  these,  the  crude  compositions  of  my 
earliest  boyhood.  They  are  printed  verbatim — without 
alteration  from  the  original  edition — the  date  of  which 
is  too  remote  to  be  judiciously  acknowledged. — E.  A.  P. 

225 
18  Foe's  Poems. 


226  POE'S  POEMS. 

AL  AARAAR* 
PART  I. 

O !  nothing  earthly  save  the  ray 

(Thrown  back  from  flowers)  of  Beauty's  eye 

As  in  those  gardens  where  the  day 

Springs  from  the  gems  of  Circassy; — 

Oh !  nothing  earthly  save  the  thrill 

Of  melody  in  woodland  rill — 

Or  (music  of  the  passion-hearted) 

Joy's  voice  so  peacefully  departed, 

That,  like  the  murmur  in  the  shell, 

Its  echo  dwelleth  and  will  dwell — 

O,  nothing  of  the  dross  of  ours — 

Yet  all  the  beauty — all  the  flowers 

That  list  our  .Love,  and  deck  our  bowers — 

Adorn  yon  world  afar,  afar — 

The  wandering  star. 

'Twas  a  sweet  time  for  Nesace — for  there 
Her  world  lay  lolling  on  the  golden  air, 
Near  four  bright  suns — a  temporary  rest — 
An  oasis  in  desert  of  the  blest. 
Away — away — 'mid  seas  of  rays  that  roll 
Empyrean  splendor  o'er  th*  unchained 
The  soul  that  scarce  (the  billows  are  so  dense) 
Can  struggle  to  its  destin'd  eminence — 
To  distant   spheres,    from  time  to  time,  she 
rode, 

*A  star  was  discovered  by  Tycho  Brahe  which  ap- 
peared suddenly  in  the  heavens — attained,  in  a  few 
days,  a  brilliancy  surpassing  that  of  Jupiter — then  as 
suddenly  disappeared,  and  has  never  been  seen  since. 


POE'S  POEMS.  227 

And  late  to  ours,  the  favor'd  one  of  God — 
But,  now,  the  ruler  of  an  anchor'd  realm, 
She  throws  aside  the  scepter — leaves  the  helm, 
And,  amid  incense  and  high  spiritual  hymns, 
Leaves  in  quadruple  light  her  angel  limbs. 
Now  happiest,  loveliest  in  yon  lovely  Earth, 

Whence   sprang  the   "Idea  of  Beauty"   into 

birth, 

(Falling  in  wreaths  thro'  many  a  startled  star, 
Like  woman's  hair  'mid  pearls,  until,  afar, 
It  lit  on  hills  Achaian,  and  there  dwelt), 
She  look'd  into  Infinity — and  knelt. 
Rich  clouds,  for  canopies,  about  her  curled — 
Fit  emblems  of  the  model  of  her  world — 
Seen  but  in  beauty — not  impeding  sight 
Of  other  beauty  glittering  thro'  the  light — 
A  wreath  that  twined  each  starry  form  around, 
And  all  the  opal'd  air  in  color  bound. 

All  hurriedly  she  knelt  upon  a  bed 
Of  flowers:  of  lilies  such  as  rear'd  the  head 
On  the  fair  Capo  Deucato,  and  sprang 
So  eagerly  around  about  to  hang 
Upon  the  flying  footsteps  of — deep  pride — 
Of  her  *  who  lov'd  a  mortal — and  so  died. 
The  Sephalica,  budding  with  young  bees, 
Uprear'd  its  purple  stem  around  her  knees: 
And  gemmy  flower,  of  Trebizond  misnam  d — 
Inmate   of  the  highest  stars,    where  erst  it 

sham'd 

All  other  loveliness:  its  honeyed  dew 
(The  fabled  nectar  that  the  heathen  knew) 
Deliriously  sweet,  was  dropp'd  from  Heaven, 

*Sappho. 


228  POE'S  POEMS. 

And  fell  on  gardens  of  the  tmforgivea 
In  Trebizond — and  on  a  sunny  flower 
So  like  its  own  above,  that,  to  this  hour, 
It  still  remaineth,  torturing  the  bee 
With  madness,  and  unwonted  reverie : 
In  Heaven,  and  all  its  environs,  the  leaf 
And  blossom  of  the  fairy  plant,  in  grief 
Disconsolate  linger — grief  that  hangs  her  head, 
Repenting  follies  that  full  long  have  fled, 
Heaving  her  white  breast  to  the  balmy  air, 
Like  guilty  beauty,  chasten'd,  and  more  fair: 
Nyctanthes  too,  as  sacred  as  the  light 
She  fears  to  perfume,  perfuming  the  night : 
And  Clytia  pondering  between  many  a  sun, 
While  pettish  tears  adown  her  petals  run: 
And    that    aspiring  flower    that    sprang    on 

Earth— 

And  died,  ere  scarce  exalted  into  birth, 
Bursting  its  odorous  heart  in  spirit  to  wing 
Its  way  to  Heaven,  from  garden  of  a  king: 
And  Valisnerian  lotus  thither  flown 
From  struggling  with  the  waters  of  the  Rhone: 
And  thy  most  lovely  purple  perfume,  Zante! 
Isola  d'oro! — Fior  di  Levante! 
And  the  Nelumbo  bud  that  floats  forever 
With  Indian  Cupid  down  the  holy  river — 
Fair  flowers,  and  fairy!  to  whose  care  is  given 
To  bear  the  Goddess'   song,   in  odors,  up  to 
Heaven : 

"Spirit!  that  dwellest  where, 

In  the  deep  sky, 

The  terrible  and  fair, 

In  beauty  vie! 

Beyond  the  line  of  blue — 


POE'S  POEMS.  229 

The  boundary  of  the  star 
Which  turneth  at  the  view 
Of  thy  barrier  and  thy  bar — 
Of  the  barrier  overgone 
By  the  comets  who  were  cast     • 
From  their  pride,  and  from  their  throne 
To  be  drudges  till  the  last- 
To  be  carriers  of  fire 
(The  red  fire  of  their  heart) 
With  speed  that  may  not  tire 
And  with  pain  that  shall  not  part — 
Who  livest — that  we  know — 
In  Eternity — we  feel — 
But  the  shadow  of  whose  brow 
What  spirit  shall  reveal 
Thro'  the  beings  whom  thy  Nesace, 
Thy  messenger  hath  known 
Have  dream 'd  for  thy  Infinity 
A  model  of  their  own — 
Thy  will  is  done,  O  God! 
The  star  hath  ridden  high 
Thro'  many  a  tempest,  but  she  rode 
Beneath  thy  burning  eye ; 
And  here,  in  thought,  to  thee — 
In  thought  that  can  alone 
Ascend  thy  empire  and  so  be 
A  partner  of  thy  throne — 
By  winged  Fantasy, 
My  embassy  is  given, 
Till  secrecy  shall  knowledge  be 
In  the  environs  of  Heaven." 

She  ceas'd — and  buried  then  her  burning  cheek 
Abash'd,  amid  the  lilies  there,  to  seek 


230  POE'S  POEMS. 

A  shelter  from  the  fervor  of  His  eye ; 

For  the  stars  trembled  at  the  Deity. 

She  stirr'd  not — breath 'd  not — for  a  voice  was 

there 

How  solemnly  pervading  the  calm  air! 
A  sound  of  silence  on  the  startled  ear 
Which  dreamy  poets  name  "the  music  of  the 

sphere," 

Ours  is  a  world  of  words:    Quiet  we  call 
4  *  Silence" — which  is  the  merest  word  of  all. 
All  Nature  speaks,  and  ev'n  ideal  things 
Flap  shadowy  sounds  from  visionary  wings — 
But  ah!  not  so  when,  thus,  in  realms  on  high 
The  eternal  voice  of  God  is  passing  by, 
And  the  red  winds  are  withering  in  the  sky! 

*'What  tho'  in  worlds  which  sightless  cycles 

run, 

Link'd  to  a  little  system,  and  one  sun — 
Where  all  my  love  is  folly  and  the  crowd 
Still  think  my  terrors  but  the  thunder  cloud, 
The  storm,    the   earthquake,    and   the   ocean 

wrath — 

(Ah!  will  they  cross  me  in  my  angrier  path?) 
What  tho'  in  worlds  which  own  a  single  sun 
The  sands  of  Time  grow  dimmer  as  they  run, 
Yet  thine  is  my  resplendency,  so  given 
To  bear  my  secrets  thro'  the  upper  Heaven.    > 
Leave  tenantless  thy  crystal  home,  and  fly, 
With  all  thy  train,  athwart  the  moony  sky —   - 
Apart — like  fire-flies  in  Sicilian  night, 
And  wing  to  other  worlds  another  light ! 
Divulge  the  secrets  of  thy  embassy 
To  the  proud  orbs  that  twinkle— and  so  be 


POE'S  POEMS.  231 

To  ev'ry  heart  a  barrier  and  a  ban 
Lest  the  stars  totter  in  the  guilt  of  man!" 
Up  rose  the  maiden  in  the  yellow  night, 
The  single-mooned  eve!— -on  Earth  we  plight 
Our  faith  to  one  love — and  one  moon  adore — 
The  birth-place  of  young  Beauty  had  no  more. 
As  sprang  that  yellow  star  from  dawny  hours 
Up  rose  the  maiden  from  her  shrine  of  flowers, 
And  bent  o'er  sheeny  mountain  and  dim  plain 
Her  way — but  left    not  yet  her    Therassean 
reign. 


PART  II. 

High  on  a  mountain  of  enamel'd  head — 
Such  as  the  drowsy  shepherd  on  his  bed 
Of  giant  pasturage  lying  at  his  ease, 
Raising  his  heavy  eyelids,  starts  and  sees 
With  many  a  mutter 'd  "hope  to  be  forgiven" 
What  time  the  moon  is  quadrated  in  Heaven — 
Of  rosy  head,  that  towering  far  away 
Into  the  sunlit  either,  caught  the  ray 
Of  sunken  suns  at  eve — at  noon  of  night, 
While  the  moon  danc'd  with  the  fair  stranger 

light— 

Uprear'd  upon  such  height  arose  a  pile 
Of  gorgeous  columns  on  th'  unburthen'd  air, 
Flashing  from  Parian  marble  that  twin  smile 
Far  down  upon  the  wave  that  sparkled  there, 
And  nursled  the  young  mountain  in  its  lair, 
Of  molten  stars  their  pavement,  such  as  fall 
Thro'  the  ebon  air,  besilvering  the  pall 
Of  their  own  dissolution,  while  they  die — 


232  POE'S  POEMS. 

Adorning  then  the  dwellings  of  the  sky. 

A  dome,   by  linked  light    from    Heaven  let 

down, 

Sat  gently  on  these  columns  as  a  crown — 
A  window  of  one  circular  diamond,  there, 
Look'd  out  above  into  the  purple  air, 
And  rays  from  God  shot  down  that  meteor 

chain 

And  hallow'd  all  the  beauty  twice  again, 
Save  when,  between  th'   Empyrean  and  that 

ring, 

Some  eager  spirit  flapp'd  his  dusky  wing. 
But  on  the  pillars  Seraph  eyes  have  seen 
The  dimness  of  this  world;  that  grayish  green 
That  Nature  loves  the  best  for  Beauty's  grave 
Lurk'd  in    each    cornice,    round  each   archi- 
trave— 

And  every  sculptur'd  cherub  thereabout 
That  from  his  marble  dwelling  peered  out, 
Seem'd  earthly  in  the  shadow  of  his  niche — 
Achaian  statues  in  a  world  so  rich? 
Friezes  from  Tadmor  and  Persepolis, 
From  Balbec,  and  the  stilly,  clear  abyss 
Of  beautiful  Gomorrah !     O,  the  wave 
Is  now  upon  thee — but  too  late  to  save! 

Sound  loves  to  revel  in  a  summer  night ; 
Witness  the  murmur  of  the  gray  twilight 
That  stole  upon  the  ear,  in  Eyraco, 
Of  many  a  wild  star  gazer  long  ago 
That  stealeth  ever  on  the  ear  of  him 
Who,  musing,  gazeth  on  the  distance  dim, 
And  sees  the  darkness  coming  as  a  cloth — 


FOE'S  POEMS.  233 

Is  not  its  form — its  voice — most  palpable  and 
loud? 

But  what  is  this? — it  cometh — and  it  brings 
A  music  with  it — 'tis  the  rush  of  wings — 
A  pause — and  then  a  sweeping,  falling  strain 
And  Nesace  is  in  her  halls  again. 
From  the  wild  energy  of  wanton  haste 

Her  cheeks  were  flushing,  and  her  lips  apart; 
And  zone  that  clung  around  her  gentle  waist 

Had  burst  beneath  the  heaving  of  her  heart. 
Within  the  center  of  that  hall  to  breathe 
She  paus'd  and  panted,  Zanthe!  all  beneath, 
The  fairy  light  that  kiss'd  her  golden  hair 
And  long'd  to  rest,  yet  could  but  sparkle  there! 

Young  flowers  were  whispering  in  melody 
To  happy  flowers  that  night — and  tree  to  tree ; 
Fountains  were  gushing  music  as  they  fell 
In  many    a  star-lit    grove,  or  moon-lit    dell ; 
Yet  silence  came  upon  material  things — 
Fair    flowers,    bright    waterfalls    and    angel 

wings — 

And  sound  alone  that  from  the  spirit  sprang 
Bore  burthen  to  the  charm  the  maiden  sang: 

"  'Neath  blue-bell  or  streamer — 

Or  tufted  wild  spray 
That  keeps,  from  the  dreamer, 

The  moonbeam  away — 
Bright  beings!  that  ponder, 

With  half  closing-eyes, 
On  the  stars  which  your  wonder 

Hath  drawn  from  the  skies, 
Till  they  g.ance  thro'  the  shade,  and 

Come  down  to  your  brow 

6  Poe's  Poems. 


234  FOE'S  POEMS 

Like — eyes  of  the  maiden 

Who  calls  on  you  now. 
Arise !  from  your  dreaming 

In  violet  bowers. 
To  duty  beseeming 

These  star-litten  hours — 

"And  shake  from  your  tresses 

Encumber 'd  with  dew 
The  breath  of  those  kisses 

That  cumber  them  too 
(O!  how,  without  you,  Love! 

Could  angels  be  blest?) — 
Those  kisses  of  true  love 

That  lull 'dye  to  rest! 
Up!  shake  from  your  wing 

Each  hindering  thing: 
The  dew  of  the  night — 

It  would  weigh  down  your  flight; 
And  true  love  caresses — 

Oh!  leave  them  apart: 
They  are  light  on  the  tresses, 

But  lead  on  the  heart. 

"Ligeia!     Ligeia! 

My  beautiful  one! 
Whose  harshest  idea 

Will  to  melody  run, 
O!  is  it  thy  will 

On  the  breezes  to  toss? 
Or,  capriciously  still, 

Like  the  lone  Albatross, 
Incumbent  on  night 

(As  she  on  the  air) 


POE'S  POEMS.  235 

To  keep  watch  with  delight 
On  the  harmony  there? 

"Ligeia!  wherever 

Thy  image  may  be,  ] 

No  magic  shall  sever 

Thy  music  from  thee. 
Thou  hast  bound  many  eyes 

In  a  dreamy  sleep — 
But  the  strains  still  arise 

Which  thy  vigilance  keep — 
The  sound  of  the  rain 

Which  leaps  down  to  the  flower, 
And  dances  again 

In  the  rhythm  of  the  shower — 
The  murmur  that  springs 

From  the  growing  of  grass 
Are  the  music  of  things — 

But  are  model' d,  alas! — 
Away,  then,  my  dearest, 

O!  hie  thee  away 
To  springs  that  lie  clearest 

Beneath  the  moon-ray — 
To  lone  lake  that  smiles, 

In  its  dream  of  deep  rest, 
At  the  many  star-isles 

That  enjeweled  its  breast — 
Where  the  wild  flowers,  creeping 

Have  mingled  their  shade, 
On  its  margin  is  sleeping 

Full  many  a  maid — 
Sorue  have  left  the  cool  glade,  and 

Have  slept  with  the  bee — 
Arouse  them,  my  maiden, 


236  POE'S  POEMS. 

On  moorland  and  lea — 
Go!  breathe  on  their  slumber, 

All  softly  in  ear, 
The  musical  number 

They  slumber 'd  to  hear — 
For  what  can  awaken 

An  angel  so  soon 
Whose  sleep  hath  been  taken 

Beneath  the  cold  moon 
As  the  spell  which  no  slumber 

Of  witchery  may  test, 
The  rhythmical  number 

Which  lull'd  him  to  rest?" 

Spirits  in  wings,  and  angels  to  the  view, 

A  thousand  seraphs  burst  th'  Empyrean  thro', 

Young  dreams  still  hovering  on  their  drowsy 

flight, 
Seraphs  in  all  but  " Knowledge,"    the  keen 

light 

That  fell,  refracted,  thro'  thy  bounds,  afar, 
O  Death!  from  eye  of  God  upon  that  star: 
Sweet     was     that    error — sweeter    still    that 

death — 

Sweet  was  that  error — e'en  with  us  the  breath 
Of  Science  dims  the  mirror  of  our  joy — 
To    them    'twere     the    Simoon,    and    would 

destroy- — 

For  what  (to  them)  availeth  it  to  know 
That  Truth  is  Falsehood — or  that  Bliss  is  Woe? 
Sweet  was  their  death — with  them  to  die  was 

rife 

With  the  last  ecstasy  of  satiate  life — 
Beyond  that  death  no  immortality — 


POE'S  POEMS.  237 

But  sleep  that  pondereth  and  is  not  "to  be"-— 
And  there — oh!  may  my  weary  spirit  dwell — 
Apart  from  Heaven's  Eternity — and  yet  how 

far  from  Hell! 

What  guilty  spirit,  in  what  shrubbery  dim, 
Heard  not  the  stirring  summons  of  that  hymn? 
But    two:  they    fell — for    Heaven    no    grace 

imparts 

To  those  who  hear  not  for  their  beating  hearts. 
A  maiden-angel  and  her  seraph-lover — 
O!    where   (and  ye  may  seek  the  wide  skies 

over) 

Was  Love,  the  blind,  near  sober  Duty  known? 
Unguided  Love  hath  fallen — 'mid  "tears  of 

perfect  moan." 

He  was  a  goodly  spirit — he  who  fell ; 
A  wanderer  by  mossy-mantled  well — 
A  gazer  on  the  lights  that  shine  above — 
A  dreamer  in  the  moonbeam,  by  his  love: 
What  wonder?  for  each  star  is  eye-like  there, 
And  looks  so  sweetly  down  on  Beauty's  hair; 
And  they,  and  ev'ry  mossy  spring  were  holy 
To  his  love-haunted  heart  and  melancholy. 
The  night  had  found  (to  him  a  night  of  woe) 
Upon  a  mountain  crag,  young  Angelo — 
Beetling  it  bends  athwart  the  solemn  sky, 
And  scowls  on  starry  worlds  that  down  be- 
neath it  lie. 

Here  sate  he  with  his  love — his  dark  eye  bent 
With  eagle  gaze  along  the  firmament: 
Now  turned  it  upon  her — but  ever  then 
It  trembled  to  the  orb  of  Earth  again. 


238  POE'S  POEMS. 

"  Ian  the,  dearest,  see!  how  dim  that  ray! 
How  lovely  'tis  to  look  so  far  away! 
She  seemed  not  thus  upon  that  autumn  eve 
I  left  her  gorgeous    halls — nor    mourned    to 

leave. 

That  eve — that  eve — i  should  remember  well  — 
The  sun-ray  dropped,  in  Lemnos,  with  a  spell 
On  th'  Arabesque  carving  of  a  gilded  hall 
Wherein  I  sate,  and  on  the  draperied  wall — 
And  on  my  eyelids — O  the  heavy  light! 
How  drowsily  it  weighed  them  into  night! 
On  flowers,  before,  and  mist,   and  love  they 

ran 

With  Persian  Saadi  in  his  Gulistan: 
But  O  that  light!— I   slumber 'd— Death,   the 

while, 

Stole  o'er  my  senses  in  that  lovely  isle 
So  softly  that  no  single  silken  hair 
Awoke  that  slept — or  knew  that  he  was  there. 

"The  last  spot  of  Earth's  orb  I  trod  upon 
Was  a  proud  temple  call'd  the  Parthenon. 
More  beauty  clung  around  her  column'd  wall 
Than  ev'n  thy  glowing  bosoms  beats  withal, 
And  when  old  Time  my  wing  did  disenthral — 
Thence  sprang  I — as  the  eagle  from  his  tower, 
And  years  I  left  behind  me  in  an  hour. 
What  time  upon  her  airy  bounds  I  hung, 
One  half  the  garden  of  her  globe  was  flung. 
Unrolling  as  a  chart  unto  my  view — 
Tenantless  cities  of  the  desert  too! 
lanthe,  beauty  crowded  on  me  then, 
And  half  I  wished  to  be  again  of  men." 
14  My  Angelo!  and  why  of  them  to  be? 


POE'S  POEMS.  239 

A  brighter  dwelling-place  is  here  for  thee, 
And  greener  fields  than  in  yon  world  above, 
And  woman's  loveliness — and  passionate  love. " 

44  But,  list,  Ian  the!  when  the  air  so  soft 
Fail'd,  as  my  pennon'd  spirit  leapt  aloft, 
Perhaps  my  brain  grew  dizzy — but  the  world 
I  left  so  late  was  into  chaos  hurl'd — 
Sprang  from  her  station,  on  the  winds  apart, 
And  roll'd,  a  flame,  the  fiery  Heaven  athwart. 
Methought,  my  sweet  one,  then  I  ceased  to 

soar 

And  fell — not  so  swiftly  as  I  rose  before, 
But  with  a  downward,  tremulous  motion  thro* 
Light,  brazen  rays,  this  golden  star  unto! 
Nor  long  the  measure  of  my  falling  hours, 
For  nearest  of  all  stars  was  thine  to  ours — 
Dread  star!  that  came,  amid  a  night  of  mirth 
A  red  Dsedalion  on  the  timid  Earth. 

"We  came — and  to  thy  Earth— but  not  to  us 
Be  given  our  lady's  bidding  to  discuss: 
We  came,  my  love ;  around,  above,  below, 
Gay  fire-fly  of  the  night  we  come  and  go, 
Nor  ask  a  reason  save  the  angel-nod 
She  grants  to  us,  as  granted  by  her  God- 
But,  Angelo,  than  thine  gray  Time  unfurl'd 
Never  his  fairy  wing  o'er  fairer  world! 
Dim  was  its  little  disk  and  angel  eyes 
Alone  could  see  the  phantom  in  the  skies. 
When  first  Al  Aaraaf  knew  her  course  to  be 
Headlong  thitherward  o'er  the  starry  sea — 
But  when  its  glory  swell'd  upon  the  sky, 
As  glowing  beauty's  bust  beneath  man's  eye. 


240  POE'S  POEMS. 

We  paused  before  the  heritage  of  men, 
And  thy  star  trembled — as  doth  Beauty  then!" 
Thus,  in  discourse,  the  lovers  whiled  away 
The  night  that  waned  and  waned  and  brought 

no  day, 

They  fell :    for  Heaven  to  them  no  hope  im- 
parts 
Who  hear  not  for  the  beating  of  their  hearts. 

I  TO  THE  RIVER  . 

Fair  river!  in  thy  bright,  clear  flow 
Of  crystal,  wandering  water, 

Thou  art  an  emblem  of  the  glow 

Of  beauty — the  unhidden  heart — 
The  playful  maziness  of  art 

In  old  Alberto's  daughter; 

But  when  within  thy  wave  she  looks — 

Which  glistens  then,  and  trembles — 
Why,  then,  the  prettiest  of  books 

Her  worshiper  resembles; 
For  in  his  heart,  as  in  thy  stream, 

Her  image  deeply  lies — 
His  heart  which  trembles  at  the  beam 

Of  her  soul-searching  eyes. 

TAMERLANE. 

Kind  solace  in  a  dying  hour! 

Such,  father,  is  not  (now)  my  theme— - 

I  will  not  madly  deem  that  power 

Of  Earth  may  shrive  me  of  the  sin 
Unearthly  pride  hath  revel'd  in — 


POE'S  POEMS.  241 

I  have  no  time  to  dote  or  dream: 
You  call  it  hope— that  fire  of  fire! 
It  is  but  agony  of  desire : 
If  I  can  hope — Oh,  God!  I  can — 

Its  fount  is  holier — more  divine — 
I  would  not  call  thee  fool,  old  man, 

But  such  is  not  a  gift  of  thine. 

Know  thou  the  secret  of  a  spirit 

Bow'd  from  its  wild  pride  into  shame. 

O  yearning  heart!  I  did  inherit 

Thy  withering  portion  with  the  fame, 

The  searing  glory  which  hath  shone 

Amid  the  jewels  of  my  throne, 

Halo  of  Hell!  and  with  a  pain 

Not  Hell  shall  make  me  fear  again — 

0  craving  heart,  for  the  lost  flowers 
And  sunshine  of  my  summer  hours! 
The  undying  voice  of  that  dead  time, 
With  its  interminable  chime, 
Rings,  in  the  spirit  of  a  spell, 

Upon  thy  emptiness — a  knell. 

1  have  not*  always  been  as  now : 
The  fever'd  diadem  on  my  brow 

I  claim'd  and  won  usurpingly — 
Hath  not  the  same  fierce  heirdom  given 
Rome  to  Caesar — this  to  me? 

The  heritage  of  a  kingly  mind, 
And  a  proud  spirit  which  hath  striven 
Triumphantly  with  human  kind. 

On  mountain  soil  I  first  drew  life: 
The  mists  of  the  Taglay  have  shed 
Nightly  the  dews  upon  my  head, 


242  POE'S  POEMS. 

And,  I  believe,  the  winged  strife 
And  tumult  of  the  headlong  air 
Have  nestled  in  my  very  hair. 

So  late  from  Heaven — that  dew — it  fell 

('Mid  dreams  of  an  unholy  night) 
Upon  me  with  the  touch  of  Hell, 

While  the  red  flashing  of  the  light 
From  clouds  that  hung  like  banners,  o'er, 

Appeared  to  my  half  closing  eye 

The  pageantry  of  monarchy, 
And  the  deep  trumpet  thunder's  roar 
Came  hurriedly  upon  me,  telling 

Of  human  battle,  where  my  voice, 
My  own  voice,  silly  child! — was  swelling 

(O !  how  my  spirit  would  rejoice, 
And  leap  within  me  at  the  cry) 
The  battle-cry  of  Victory! 

The  rain  came  down  upon  my  head 
Unshelter'd — and  the  heavy  wind 
Rendered  me  mad  and  deaf  and  blind. 

It  was  but  man,  I  thought,  who  shed 
Laurels  upon  me :  and  tho  rush — 

The  torrent  of  the  chilly  air 

Gurgled  within  my  ear  the  crush 
Of  empires — with  the  captive's  prayer — 

The  hum  of  suitors— and  the  tone 

Of  flattery  'round  a  sovereign's  throne. 

My  passions,  from  that  hapless  hour, 

Usurped  a  tyranny  which  men 
Have  deem'd,  since  I  have  reached  to  power, 
My  innate  nature — be  it  so : 


POE'S  POEMS.  243 

But,  father,  there  liv'd  one  who,  then, 
Then — in  my  boyhood — when  their  fire 

Burn'd  with  a  still  intenser  glow 
(For  passion  must,  with  youth,  expire) 
E'en  then  who  knew  this  iron  heart 
In  woman's  weakness  had  a  part. 

I  have  no  words — alas — to  tell 
The  loveliness  of  loving  well ! 
Nor  would  I  now  attempt  to   trace 
The  more  than  beauty  of  a  face 
Whose  lineaments,  upon  my  mind, 

Are shadows  on  th'  unstable  wind: 

Thus  I  remember  having  dwelt 

Some  page  of  early  lore  upon, 
With  loitering  eye,  till  I  have  felt 
The  letters — with  their  meaning — melt 

To  fantasies — with  none. 

O,  she  was  worthy  of  all  love ! 

Love — as  in  infancy  was  mine — 
'Twas  such  as  angel  minds  above 

Might  envy;  her  young  heart  the  shrine 
On  which  my  every  hope  and  thought 

Were  incense— then  a  goodly  gift. 

For  they  were  childish  and  upright — 
Pure as  her  young  example  taught: 

Why  did  I  leave  it,  and,  adrift, 
Trust  to  the  fire  within,  for  light? 

We  grew  an  age — and  love — together — 
Roaming  the  forest,  and  the  wild; 

My  breast  her  shield  in  wintry  weather—- 
And, when  the  friendly  sunshine  smil'd 


244  FOE'S  POEMS. 

And  she  would  mark  the  opening  skies, 
I  saw  no  Heaven — but  in  her  eyes. 
Young  Love's  first  lesson  is— — the  heart: 

For  'mid  that  sunshine,  and  those  smiles, 
When,  from  our  little  cares  apart, 

And  laughing  at  her  girlish  wiles, 
I'd  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  breast, 

And  pour  my  spirit  out  in  tears — 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  rest — 

No  need  to  quiet  any  fears 
Of  her — who  asked  no  reason  why, 
But  turned  on  me  her  quiet  eye! 

Yet  more  than  worthy  of  the  love 

My  spirit  struggled  with,  and  strove, 

When,  on  the  mountain  peak  alone, 

Ambition  lent  it  a  new  tone — 

I  had  no  being — but  in  thee : 

,    The  world,  and  all  it  did  contain 

In  the  earth — the  air — the  sea — 

Its  joy — its  little  lot  of  pain 
That  was  new  pleasure the  ideal, 

Dim,  vanities  of  dreams  by  night — 
And  dimmer  nothings  which  were  real — 

(Shadows — and  a  more  shadowy  light!) 
Parted  upon  their  misty  wings, 
And,  so,  confusedly,  became 
Thine  image  and — a  name — a  name! 
Two  separate — yet  most  intimate  things. 

I  was  ambitious — have  you  known 

The  passion,  father?    You  have  not: 
A  cottager,  I  mark'd  a  throne 
Of  half  the  world  as  all  my  own, 


POE'S  POEMS.  245 

And  murmur'd  at  suoh  lowly  lot — 
But,  just  like  any  other  dream, 

Upon  the  vapor  of  the  dew 
My  own  had  past,  did  not  the  beam 

Of  beauty  which  did  while  it  thro* 
The  minute — the  hour — the  day — oppress 
My  mind  with  double  loveliness 
We  walk'd  together  on  the  crown 
Of  a  high  mountain  which  look'd  down 
Afar  from  its  proud  natural  towers 
Of  rock  and  forest,  on  the  hills — 
The  dwindled  hills!  begirt  with  bowers 
And  shouting  with  a  thousand  rills. 

I  spoke  to  her  of  power  and  pride, 

But  mystically — in  such  guise 
That  she  might  deem  it  nought  beside 

The  moment's  converse;  in  her  eyes 
I  read,  perhaps  too  carelessly — 

A  mingled  feeling  with  my  own — 
The  flush  on  her  bright  cheek,  to  me 

Seem'd  to  become  a  queenly  throne 
Too  well  that  I  should  let  it  be 

Light  in  the  wilderness  alone. 

I  wrapp'd  myself  in  grandeur  then 

And  donn'd  a  visionary  crown — 
Yet  it  was  not  that  Fantasy 

Had  thrown  her  mantle  over  me — 
But  that,  among  the  rabble — men, 

Lion  ambition  is  chain'd  down — 
And  crouches  to  a  keeper's  hand — 

Not  so  in  deserts  where  the  grand — 


246  POE'S  POEMS. 

The  wild — the  terrible  conspire 
With  their  own  breath  to  fan  his  fire. 

Look  'round  thee  now  on  Samarcand ! — 

Is  she  not  queen  of  Earth?  her  pride 
Above  all  cities?  in  her  hand 

Their  destinies?  in  all  beside 
Of  glory  which  the  world  hath  known 

Stands  she  not  nobly  and  alone? 
Falling — her  veriest  stepping-stone 

Shall  form  the  pedestal  of  a  throne — 
And  who  her  sovereign?     Timour — he 
Whom  the  astonished  people  saw 
Striding  o'er  empires  haughtily 

A  diadem'd  outlaw! 

O,  human  love!  thou  spirit  given, 
On  Earth,  of  all  we  hope  in  Heaven! 
Which  fall'st  into  the  soul  like  rain 
Upon  the  Siroc-wither'd  plain, 
And,  falling  in  thy  power  to  bless, 
But  leav'st  the  heart  a  wilderness! 
Idea!  which  bindest  life  around 
With  music  of  so  strange  a  sound 
And  beauty  of  so  wild  a  birth — 
Farewell!  for  I  have  won  the  Earth. 

When  Hope,  the  eagle  that  tower'd,  could  see 

No  cliff  beyond  him  in  the  sky, 
His  pinions  were  bent  droopingly — 

And  homeward  turn'd  his  soften'd  eye. 
'Twas  sunset:  when  the  sun  will  part 
There  comes  a  sullenness  of  heart 
To  him  who  still  would  look  upon 


POE'S  POEMS.  247 

The  glory  of  the  summer  sun. 

That  soul  will  hate  the  ev'ning  mist 

So  often  lovely,  and  will  list 

To  the  sound  of  the  coming  darkness  (known 

To  those  whose  spirits  hearken)  as  one 
Who,  in  a  dream  of  night,  would  fly 
But  cannot  from  a  danger  nigh. 

What  tho'  the  moon — the  white  moon 
Shed  all  the  splendor  of  her  noon, 
Her  smile  is  chilly — and  her  beam, 
In  that  time  of  dreariness,  will  seem 
(So  like  you  gather  in  your  breath) 
A  portrait  taken  after  death. 
And  boyhood  is  a  summer  sun 
Whose  waning  is  the  dreariest  one — 
For  all  we  live  to  know  is  known 
And  all  we  seek  to  keep  hath  flown — 
Let  life,  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall 
With  the  noon-day  beauty — which  is  all. 

I  reach 'd  my  home — my  home  no  more — 
For  all  had  flown  who  made  it  so. 
I  pass'd  from  out  its  mossy  door, 
And,  tho'  my  tread  was  soft  and  low, 
A  voice  came  from  the  threshold  stone 
Of  one  whom  I  had  earlier  known — 

O,  I  defy  thee,  Hell,  to  show 
On  beds  of  fire  that  burn  below, 

An  humbler  heart — a  deeper  woe. 

Father,  I  firmly  do  believe — 

I  know — for  Death  who  comes  for  me 
From  regions  of  the  blest  afar, 


248  POE'S  POEMS. 

Where  there  is  nothing  to  deceive, 
Hath  left  his  iron  gate  ajar, 

And  rays  of  truth  you  cannot  see 

Are  flashing  thro'  Eternity — 
I  do  believe  that  Eblis  hath 
A  snare  in  every  human  path- 
Else  how,  when  in  the  holy  grove 
I  wandered,  of  the  idol,  Love, 
Who  daily  scents  his  snowy  wings 
With  incense  of  burnt  offerings 
From  the  most  unpolluted  things, 
Whose  pleasant  bowers  are  yet  so  riven 
Above  with  trellis'd  rays  from  Heaven 
No  mote  may  shun — no  tiniest  fly — 
The  light'ning  of  his  eagle  eye — 
How  was  it  that  Ambition  crept, 

Unseen,  amid  the  revels  there, 
Till  growing  bold,  he  laughed  and  leapt 

In  the  tangles  of  Love's  very  hair? 

TO  . 

The  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see 

The  wantonest  singing  birds, 
Are  lips — and  all  thy  melody 

Of  lip-begotten  words — 

Thine  eyes,  in  Heaven  of  heart  enshrined 

Then  desolately  fall, 
God !  on  my  funereal  mind 

Like  starlight  on  a  pall — 

Thy  heart —thy  heart! — I  wake  and  sigh, 
And  sleep  to  dream  till  day 


POE'S  POEMS.  249 

Of  the  truth  that  gold  can  never  buy  — 
Of  the  baubles  that  it  may. 

A  DREAM. 

In  visions  of  the  dark  night 

I  have  dreamed  of  joy  departed — 

But  a  waking  dream  of.  life  and  light 
Hath  left  me  broken-hearted. 

Ah !  what  is  not  a  dream  by  day 

To  him  whose  eyes  are  cast 
On  things  around  him  with  a  ray 

Turned  back  upon  the  past? 

That  holy  dream — that  holy  dream, 
While  all  the  world  were  chiding, 

Hath  cheered  me  as  a  lovely  beam 
A  lonely  spirit  guiding. 

What  though  that  light,  thro*  storm  and  night, 

So  trembled  from  afar — 
What  could  there  be  more  purely  bright 

In  Truth's  day-star? 

ROMANCE. 

Romance,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing, 
With  drowsy  head  and  folded  wing, 
Among  the  green  leaves  as  they  shake 
Far  down  within  some  shadowy  lake, 
To  me  a  painted  paroquet 
Hath  been — a  most  familiar  bird — 
Taught  me  my  alphabet  to  say — 


250  POE'S  POEMS. 

To  lisp  my  very  earliest  word, 
While  to  the  wild  wood  I  did  lie 
A  child — with  a  most  knowing  eye. 

Of  late,  eternal  Condor  years 
So  shake  the  very  Heaven  on  high 
With  tumult  as  they  thunder  by, 
I  have  no  time  for  idle  cares 
Through  gazing  on  the  unquiet  sky. 
And  when  an  hour  with  calmer  wings 
Its  down  upon  my  spirit  flings — 
That  little  time  with  lyre  and  rhyme 
To  while  away — forbidden  things! 
My  heart  would  feel  to  be  a  crime 
Unless  it  trembled  with  the  strings. 

FAIRYLAND. 

Dim  vales — and  shadowy  floods — 
And  cloudy-looking  woods, 
Whose  forms  we  can't  discover 
For  the  tears  that  drip  all  over ; 
Huge  moons  there  wax  and  wane — 
Again — again — again — 
Every  moment  of  the  night 
Forever  changing  places, 
And  they  put  out  the  star-light 
With  the  breath  from  their  pale  faces. 
About  twelve  by  the  moon -dial 
One  more  filmy  than  the  rest 
(A  kind  which,  upon  trial, 
They  have  found  to  be  the  best) 
Comes  down— still  down — and  down 
With  its  center  on  the  crown 


POE'S  POEMS.  26) 

Of  a  mountain's  eminence. 

While  its  wide  circumference 

In  easy  drapery  falls 

Over  hamlets,  over  halls, 

Wherever  they  may  be 

O'er  the  strange  woods — o'er  the  sea — 

Over  spirits  on  the  wing — 

Over  every  drowsy  thing — 

And  buries  them  up  quite 

In  a  labyrinth  of  light — 

And  then,  how  deep! — O,  deep 

Is  the  passion  of  their  sleep. 

In  the  morning  they  arise, 

And  their  moony  covering 

Is  soaring  in  the  skies. 

With  the  tempests  as  they  toss 

Like almost  any  thing — 

Or  a  yellow  Albatross. 
They  use  that  moon  no  more 
For  the  same  end  as  before 
Videlicet  a  tent — 
Which  I  think  extravagant: 
Its  atomies,  however, 
Into  a  shower  dissever, 
Of  which  those  butterflies 
Of  Earth,  who  seek  the  skies. 
And  so  come  down  again 
(Never-contented  things!) 
Have  brought  a  specimen 
Upon  their  quivering  wings. 


252  POE'S  POEMS. 

THE  LAKE.         To . 

In  spring  of  youth  it  was  my  lot 

To  haunt  of  the  wide  world  a  spot 

The  which  I  could  not  love  the  less — 

So  lovely  was  the  loneliness 

Of  a  wild  lake,  with  black  rock  bound, 

And  the  tall  pines  that  towered  around, 

But  when  the  Night  had  thrown  her  pall 

Upon  that  spot,  as  upon  all, 

And  the  mystic  wind  went  by 

Murmuring  in  melody — 

Then — ah,  then,  I  would  awake 

To  the  terror  of  a  lone  lake. 

Yet  the  terror  was  not  fright, 

But  a  tremulous  delight — 

A  feeling  not  the  jeweled  mine 

Could  teach  or  bribe  me  to  define — 

Nor  love — although  the  Love  were  thine. 

Death  was  in  that  poisonous  wave, 

And  in  its  gulf  a  fitting  grave 

For  him  who  thence  could  solace  bring 

To  his  lone  imagining 

Whose  solitary  soul  could  make 

An  Eden  of  that  dim  lake. 

SONG. 

t  saw  thee  on  thy  bridal  day 

When  a  burning  blush  came  o'er  thee, 
Through  happiness  around  thee  lay, 

The  world  all  love  before  thee; 


POE'S  POEMS.  253 

And  thine  eye  a  kindling  light 

(Whatever  it  might  be) 
Was  all  on  Earth  my  aching  sight 

Ot  Loveliness  could  see. 

That  blush,  perhaps,  was  maiden  shame — 

As  such  it  well  may  pass — 
Though  its  glow  hath  raised  a  fiercer  flame 

In  the  breast  of  him,  alas! 

Who  saw  thee  on  that  bridal  day, 

When  that  deep  blush  would  come  o'er  thee, 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay. 

The  world  all  love  before  thee. 


TO  M.  L.  S.  . 

Of  all  who  hail  thy  presence  as  the  morning— 
Of  all  to  whom  thine  absence  is  the  night — 
The  blotting  utterly  from  out  high  heaven 
The  sacred  sun — of  all  who,  weeping,  bless  thee 
Hourly  for  hope — for  life — ah !  above  all, 
For  the  resurrection  of  deep-buried  faith, 
In  Truth — in  Virtue — in  Humanity — 
Of  all  who,  on  Despair's  unhallowed  bed 
Lying  down  to  die,  have  suddenly  arisen 
At  thy  soft-murmured  words,  "Let  there  be 

light!" 

At  the  soft-murmured  words  that  were  fulfilled 
In  the  seraphic  glancing  of  thine  eyes — 
Of  all  who  owe  thee  most — whose  gratitude 
Nearest  resembles  worship — oh,  remember 
The  truest— the  most  fervently  devoted, 


254  FOE'S  POEMS. 

And  think  that  these  weak  lines  are  written  by 

him — 

By  him  who,  as  he  pens  them,  thrills  to  think 
His  spirit  is  communing  with  an  angel's. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  DEAD. 

Thy  soul  shall  find  itself  alone 

'Mid  dark  thoughts  of  the  gray  tombstone—  . 

Not  one.  of  all  the  crowd,  to  pry 

Into  thine  hour  of  secrecy. 

Be  silent  in  thy  solitude 
Which  is  not  loneliness — for  then 

The  spirits  of  the  dead  who  stood 
In  life  before  thee  are  again 

In  death  around  thee — and  their  will 

Shall  overshadow  thee,  be  still, 

The  night — tho'  clear — shall  frown — 
And  the  stars  shall  not  look  down 
From  their  high  thrones  in  the  Heaven, 
With  light  like  Hope  to  mortals  given — 
But  their  red  orbs,  without  beam, 
To  thy  weariness  shall  seem 
Asa  burning  and  a  fever 
Which  would  cling  to  thee  forever. 

Now  are  thoughts  thou  shalt  not  banish^ 
Now  are  visions  ne'er  to  vanish — 
From  thy  spirit  shall  they  pass 
No  more — like  dew-drops  from  the  grass. 

The  breeze — the  breath  of  God — is  stlil — 
And  the  mist  upon  the  hill 


POE'S  POEMS.  255 

Sahdowy — shadowy — yet  unbroken, 

Is  a  symbol  and  a  token — 

How  it  hangs  upon  the  trees,  > 

A  mystery  of  mysteries !  *  .•     * .. 

TO  HELEN. 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 
That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 

The  weary,  way- worn  wanderer  bore 

To  his  own  native  shore, 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam,  ; 

Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 
Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 

To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo!  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand! 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand, 

Ah !  Pysche,  from  the  regions  which  ( 

Are  Holy  Land! 

ALONE. 

Prom  childhood's  hour  I  have  not  been 
As  others  were — I  have  not  seen 
As  others  saw — I  could  not  bring 
My  passions  from  a  common  spring. 
From  the  same  source  I  have  not  taken 
My  sorrow;  I  could  not  awaken 
My  heart  to  joy  at  the  same  tone ; 
And  all  I  lov'd,  I  lov'd  alone. 


256  POE'S  POEMS. 

Then — in  my  childhood — in  the  dawn 
Of  a  most  stormy  life  was  drawn — 
From  ev'ry  depth  of  good  and  ill 
The  mystery  which  binds  me  still: 
From  the  torrent,  or  the  fountain, 
From  the  red  cliff  of  the  mountain, 
From  the  sun  that  'round  me  roll'd 
In  its  autumn  tint  of  gold — 
From  the  lightning  in  the  sky 
As  it  pass'd  me  flying  by — 
From  the  thunder  and  the  storm, 
And  the  cloud  that  took  the  form 
(When  the  rest  of  Heaven  was  blue) 
Of  a  demon  in  my  view. 

THE    END. 


University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 

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